


And Those Bright Blue Eyes

by BetsyByron



Series: College Bondlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossover, First Love, From Sex to Love, M/M, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 24,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetsyByron/pseuds/BetsyByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was brilliant at what he did. It was opening his mouth about it which accounted for most people hating him.</p><p>Until John Watson.</p><p>Until John Watson he had just never expected to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the College Bondlock series.
> 
> Soundtrack: Love, Love, Love, by Of Monsters and Men

College life was dull. So dull it surprised Sherlock when Quinton seemed to enjoy it – relatively speaking –, making friends, challenging his teachers and even falling in love within the first three weeks. If you omitted the fact that he was sixteen, he was almost a normal Uni student – something Sherlock had never been, and wouldn't have even if he hadn't been three years precocious (to say the least) like his older and younger brothers.

College life was uneventful. At least until Quinton joined the crew of first year students and came to live across the campus. After a while Sherlock stopped counting the number of times his little bother – sorry, brother – had showed up sleep it off, crashing on his sofa, which Sherlock had invested in after the first time, when he had really not enjoyed sharing his bed with 140 odd pounds of drunken Quinn, who couldn't fall asleep and went on and on about some blond blue-eyed god.

He tried to scold him out of it, of course. Their grandfather Gerald would have been horrified. Love was for the common people, any manifestation of it very unbefitting of a Holmes. No “sentiment” other than dignity (one that was dangerously close to indifference) was noble enough to his mind. But even Gerald Holmes, though he had made Father into a rather apathetic being, had never killed the ambition in Mycroft, the enthusiasm in Sherlock, or the heart in Quinton.

It wasn't that Quinn was in love which bumped Sherlock. He had always expected him to be, sooner or later, and deep enough for the three of them. It didn't come as a surprise either that the object of his passion was a man. Having grown up with a mother who was nothing near nurturing and, on the other hand, two concerned older brothers, it was no wonder his first love would be a protective figure – not that it couldn’t have been anything else, but it didn’t come from nowhere.

No, what was really annoying was his attitude about it. Ever since he had laid eyes on James Bond, Quinn had been defeated. He had never entertained the slightest hope of something happening between them, he hadn't even tried. Sherlock didn't know this resignation in him even existed, and it crossed him. Sure, the guy was a womaniser, but Quinton was easily worth ten of those girls if you asked Sherlock. If he only fought for it, it would probably be an easy win.

Sherlock wasn't good with matters of the heart. He wasn't a great romantic. So instead of telling Quinn to go get him, naturally he advised him to forget the man. And, basically, to throw himself at guys two (at the very least) to twenty years older than him. He only realised it was more than probably a bad idea when Quinton came back from his night-out bruised and not very far from worse. The apology stuck in his throat, but he did his best to convey to his baby brother, in words or not, that he was a great kid, should fear no-one, and had every chance to get the guy in the end.

He wouldn't have thought support would have to go as far as to participate in a social gathering – a *party*, dear God – but he was ready to make an effort, if not for Quinn's happiness itself, at least to prove his point that no James Bond could resist a decided young Holmes. He had carefully observed the man beforehand. Bond was what he was, but at least he was a good guy, from what Sherlock had observed – which was more than enough to form an opinion. Final proof of that had been brought when he not only rescued Quinn, but cared about his existence beyond the one time.

*

The place was already packed when they arrived. Playing coach, Sherlock had virtually locked Quinton up until it wasn't too desperately early to appear. He let him look for James as soon as they got there though, as the younger Holmes argued it was the polite thing to do to say hello to the host.

He saw the shift in his expression when he finally laid eyes on Bond. _Is that love?_ He wondered. Quinn looked fulfilled; he looked like he needed nothing more in life than keeping his eyes on this one person. He looked happy. It dawned on Sherlock that Quinn could do with a lot more love in his life than he had been shown by the Holmes family. Indifference or even denigration towards any display of affection was not a second nature for him as it was for his relatives. He put up a facade to fit in. _If only_ , Sherlock caught himself thinking. If only James Bond or anyone else could love Quinton the way he deserved and needed.

He directed his gaze towards the guy, and he caught the split-second smile that flashed on his lips before he thought to control himself. There was a slight frown that lingered after that and he murmured something Sherlock was too far to lip-read. It didn't tell the improvised detective as much as did James’s friend's face next to him – a shorter blond guy who looked like they were close. The mask was thinner, and Sherlock could read that he had noticed something happening to his mate. He resolved to talk to this guy at one point in the evening to figure out what exactly.

For Quinn's sake, of course. Not because his eyes were now on Sherlock and seemed to be burning holes in his skin.

Quinn's filters were visibly not quite in place, but he managed to set James on the mission to get him a drink; Sherlock assumed he would be just fine and sneaked away, positioning himself far enough to be alone and close enough to observe it all. A party was a genuine showcase of anthropology. Sometimes he didn't understand how people found each other so complicated, so hard to figure out. All it took was observation. In a matter of minutes Sherlock could tell you what couples were forming, established or reaching their end, who had an inferiority complex and who was burning to share some good news.

Once, some benevolent aunt whom he had impressed with his observation skills had asked him how many fans he had, how many dazzled followers, how many girls fighting for him. He had lied. She didn't need to know that the only person in the world who truly liked him was Quinton – and even his admiration, with age, was increasingly replaced with annoyance. That aunt had no idea how ruthless the younger generations were. Sherlock was brilliant at what he did. It was opening his mouth about it which accounted for most people hating him.

Until John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story of boy meets boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted John to be direct in his approach to Sherlock. If you consider the string of girlfriends he has in the series, I don't think it's that OOC that he should be a little forward in his conquests. Of course it wouldn't work at all with canon!BBCSherlock, but in this AU he is younger, less impresive in a way, and John doesn't know him at all. So, here goes direct John.  
> Btw this is heading straight towards sex, I'll update the tags depending on how I write it...

Sherlock cornered James's friend seemingly innocently as he moved between the girl he had been talking to and the minuscule kitchen. Something flickered on his face, like surprise mixed with want.

“Oh, I wanted to talk to you.” He said, and it was Sherlock's turn to be surprised.

“Did you?”

“Ask you out, actually.”

Sherlock’s face – and mind – remained blank for a moment. He was scanning for any alternative meanings to the phrase, because the chief meaning was far too unexpected, and he didn’t do unexpected when he could avoid it – which was most of the time.

“Ask me out?” He eventually repeated, assessing he needed clarification on this one.

“Yeah, go for a drink, talk about your brother and my friend.” He explained, and Sherlock had a moment of recognition. “Then stop talking about them.” He added, and Sherlock found himself frowning again. The other one smiled, and extended his hand.

“I’m John, by the way. Watson.”

“Hml, Holmes.” Sherlock stumbled, shaking the offered hand briefly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

This John’s eyes were decidedly too intense. Sherlock had seen lust before – when directed towards him, it was generally defused the minute he started talking – but never quite like that. He had no doubt that, if he could, John Watson would fuck him against the kitchen counter right here and now.

And he had half a mind to let him. Sherlock never went looking for sex, he didn’t need it that frequently, he thought it was mostly inconvenient. But he was human. He had to get off once in a while. And if someone was looking at him like that, well, mind over matter could only go so far.

“So, Sherlock Holmes.” John smiled almost innocently. “What do you say?”

“I say we skip the part about my brother.” Sherlock said. “And go straight to the sex, since it is clearly what you are aiming at.”

Way to turn someone on, Sherlock thought. He could never help his tone. But John let out a little incredulous laugh.

“Clearly?” He repeated, inquisitive.

“Body language.” Sherlock stated. “Your pupils are dilated and you blink a lot, you have your thumbs tucked in your pockets in an affected pose of casualty, arms by your side leaving you wide open, and you are leaning towards me, only very slightly I’ll grant you that. Do I even need to tell you how many times you’ve licked your lips?”

Sherlock expected him to take at least three steps back, avert his eyes and cross his arms with a pout – a common reaction according to his previous experience, then again maybe he was angling for it. John didn’t move; only his eyebrows shot up.

“That’s amazing.” He said. “Can you tell all that with just one look at me?”

_Amazing?_

“I can tell a lot more with just one look at you.” Sherlock replied. “This was just Body Language 101.”

John smiled again. The conversation wasn’t stopping. This was definitely new ground to Sherlock. Was there a part missing in this guy?

“Do you charge for the next lecture?” He asked half-mockingly.

“I’m afraid society would call that prostitution.” Sherlock grinned back.

He was starting to enjoy this guy’s company. He tried to think of precedents, but nothing came to his mind, not even childhood friends – he had his brothers acting as that.

“Right.” John laughed. “Will you let me buy you that drink, though, one of those nights? Or do you want to skip that part too?”

“You’re straightforward.” Sherlock noted.

“I’m not always.” John confessed. “Usually I pick up girls; you have to be a little more delicate with them. But clearly,” (he emphasized the word, corner of his mouth twitching up), “you see through innuendo anyway.”

“Why ask me out if you a ladies’ man?” Sherlock asked.

He didn’t really care why, not insofar as he was going to have sex with him anyway sooner rather than later. But well, he was an anthropologist if anything, and he preferred to get to the bottom of it, let himself believe flesh hadn’t already won over any reason yet.

“You’re probably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.” John justified. “There’s James, but I’ve known him since childhood, he’s like a brother – and not really my type.”

“And what made you think I had any disposition to accept?” the middle Holmes pursued.

“I had no idea.” John admitted. “If you ever only target people with ‘dispositions’ though, it won’t get you very far. I know when to give up, but never without trying.”

“Good for you, John Watson. It worked.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex first, questions later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm not following the BBC assumption that Sherlock is a virgin (mind you, who does when writing johnlock) but I think he still has this particular "don't care" approach to sex. He has it, or he doesn't, then moves on. I think John will be the first person to make him want more of the same :)

It was strange. Sherlock had been with people only just met in a club, not even always exchanging names. Once, he had been with a girl he knew really well, which had been a disaster. He had never been in this situation, where he knew some of John, for having spoken with him for about three hours at James’s party – where he had admitted his only experience of homosexual sex was gay porn – but they weren’t close either.

They had skipped the drink in the end. Sunday night, John had met with James though more briefly than usual, before joining Sherlock in his dorm room, which they had agreed on through brief text messages the day before. It had been a week and a day since they’d met, and Sherlock was about to burst. He didn’t know about John, but he seemed to be in the same state of urgency.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he was on Sherlock’s lips, tracing the curve of his palate with his tongue. Sherlock gripped a hand into his hair and kissed him back until he could breathe.

“Bloody hell.” John panted when they broke off for air. “We really should have done that before we parted last Saturday.”

“Second that.” Sherlock said.

He seconded the kiss, too. John’s hands suddenly touched the back of his thighs, sliding up to cup his ass with little reservation.

“I have been jerking off to the mental picture of you all week.” John confessed, and if Sherlock wasn’t hard already, he was now.

John smiled a devilish smile, and those were the most attractive lustful eyes Sherlock had ever seen.

“Let’s see if I pictured right.” John breathed.

He pushed Sherlock down onto the bed, straddled him, and attacked the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock let him, though not without bucking his hips up to press his erection against John’s, very please at how it made him lose his focus.

“Oh my God, look at you.” John huffed when the shirt was out of the way. “I am not getting topless.”

His previous audaciousness melted noticeably.

“You most definitely are.” Sherlock countered, sliding his hands under John’s layers of clothing, cold fingers against his warm skin. John’s whole body trembled.

“No with this going on.” John insisted, touching his own hands to Sherlock’s abs. “Funny, I did not imagine you as the working-out type.”

“I keep fit.” Sherlock admitted. “You can’t let your body rot under the pretence that your mind… Why are we talking, just get naked already.”

John let him pull jumper and shirt together over his head, but he blushed.

“I don’t look half as good as you do.” He expressed.

“You look perfect.” Sherlock retorted. He meant it.

He pushed himself up, his hands still on John’s back, and closed his lips around a nipple. John’s whole body arched in his arms, gasping for breath as Sherlock’s tongue swirled exactly the way it should.

“Great.” John managed to speak. “You are set out on making me insane. Bloody great.”

“Oh.” Sherlock whispered. “I haven’t even started.”

He toppled him fully over, and John found that the rough texture of the blanket on his back was really not a fair replacement for Sherlock’s hands. He changed his mind when said hands came to rest on the inside of his thighs, each side of the bulge in his trousers, not quite touching it.

Sherlock paused. John was beautiful, in a way you couldn’t suspect underneath his sensible jumpers and his round face. Sherlock wanted him like he had never wanted someone – maybe because nobody had ever wanted him quite as strongly as John did either. But he didn’t want to hurt him.

“Is this your first time?” He asked.

“What? Of course not!” John flushed.

“With a man.” Sherlock specified.

“You’re a boy.” John retorted slightly harshly. “And who said you should be on top?”

As an answer, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his mouth to John’s crotch, nudging at the fabric of his jeans. John let out an incoherent sound.

“Okay.” He wheezed. “I have never done this with another guy, you take charge. But for fuck’s sake, stop teasing me.”

Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice. He unbuttoned John’s jeans, then his, and took both their cocks out of their respective underwear so that they rubbed together. At the same time, he was kissing John again, his lips, his jaw, the sensitive skin under his chin and where the neck joined the shoulder.

“You can be on top.” He murmured against his collarbone. “You still have to find out if you like being penetrated. I know I don’t mind.”

“You slut.” John mocked gently. “Just so you know, I already… fingers.” He finished clumsily. “A girl’s weird kink, once.”

“Not quite the same.” Sherlock noted.

But the mention of it made him realize there was way too many clothes still present, and he abandoned John’s nipple – if slightly reluctantly – to tug on his trousers and pants. John lifted his hips so he could easily slide them off him.

“Do I get mine off too?” Sherlock asked jokingly. “Or is it going to give you a complex again?”

As he spoke, he slid a hand between John’s thighs, brushing against his balls and pressing his fingers lightly against his hole.

“Naked.” John said, not coherent enough to make full sentences. “Now.”

Sherlock reached for his jeans, but John sat up brusquely and reversed their positions from a moment ago.

“Actually.” He said, starting to pull at Sherlock’s clothes himself. “You keep your hands on my ass.”

Sherlock squeezed the cheeks as ordered, making John’s body tense up delightfully, as the older boy rid him of everything he was still wearing.

“I have seen naked men before.” John said, lost again in the sight of Sherlock. “But damn me you are too gorgeous to be true.”

He leaned in, same as Sherlock had done, and sucked on a hard nipple, circling his hands on the soft skin beneath. Sherlock’s own hands were still on his ass, and he slipped them down a little, pushing John’s thighs further apart. John had to resist pressing his body against Sherlock’s, instead he took one of his hands down and cupped the boy’s shaft.

“You are so hard.” He said.

“You can talk.” Sherlock replied.

Every word was a breath strained out, expressing more desire than actual meaning. Sherlock’s breath hitched even more when John started sliding his hand up and down his cock, smearing the pre-come with his thumb, from the tip down to the curly hair at the base. Sherlock felt his brain hiccup and stop functioning, and pushed the tip of his finger in John’s hole as a vengeance.

“Ah!” John jumped – but he sounded more aroused than surprised.

“You’re impossible.” Sherlock groaned, not letting go of his grip on John’s ass, and crazy for the interrupted friction on his own cock. “I want to do everything to you at the same time, but I couldn’t bear you to take your hands off me.”

John leaned forward, pushing back into Sherlock’s hand, tightening his fingers around his cock and kissing him all at once.

“Pick a battle.” He said.

Sherlock brought a hand back up to get tangled into John’s hair and, pulling him close, indulged in needy kisses for a moment before he had to chose.

“You do me.” He finally said.

He had been a boy’s disastrous first time once; he didn’t particularly want to repeat the experience. At least if John took the lead, he would be in more charted territory.

“That’s romantically said.” John chortled.

“I’m not the right person if you want romantic.” Sherlock noted.

“Yeah.” John whispered. “Right now, I don’t care.”

He took his hand off Sherlock’s cock to replace it with his mouth, licking a trail up the length, sucking gently at the head, and finally swallowing him whole.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Sherlock let out. “You’re far too good for someone who hasn’t done it before.”

John didn’t answer, but kept sucking him off with maddening nimbleness, twirling his tongue and sliding his lips up and down. Simultaneously, his hand glided along the inside of Sherlock’s leg and came to tease the crest of his ass.

“Lube.” Sherlock spoke in a strangled voice, as if he had pushed a button.

John let go off his cock with a soft pop, looking up to him.

“Where is it?” He asked. He didn’t seem to want to wait either.

“Desk drawer.” Sherlock indicated.

One part of him was screaming because of the unfinished blow job, another made him twitch even harder for what was coming. The seconds John got away from him to get some lube and condom seemed like hours. Still lying on his back, Sherlock spread his legs as far apart as he could to give John access to his hole. The blonde poured a generous amount of lube on his fingers, and pressed two in together at once. Sherlock’s body jolted, his eyes closing in the sudden sensation of pleasure and pain. John wasn’t rough; he wriggled his fingers slowly until it was comfortable to push them further than the tip.

“How many can you take?” He asked at the second articulation. It almost sounded like genuine interest, but he couldn’t shake the lust out of his tone.

“As many as you put in.” Sherlock answered, maybe a bit ambitiously. “But I’m not really interested in your _fingers,_ John.”

John slotted a third finger in tentatively, then seemed to decide Sherlock was loose enough. He rolled a condom on, poured some more lube on his hand, rubbed himself for a minute, during which Sherlock was lifting his ass desperately, whining – and cursing himself for it – at the loss of contact. At last John gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulled him forward, and aligned himself. There he stopped again, visibly uncertain. The light, too light press of the head of his cock against Sherlock’s entrance was almost unbearable. Sherlock forced himself to stay as still as he could.

“In your own time.” He croaked. “But quite quickly.”

John took a sharp intake of breath, and pressed in, slowly but steadily, until he was altogether inside Sherlock, balls pressed against his ass. There he let out a shivering sigh, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Bloody hell.” He murmured. “You’re so-”

The adjective was lost in a jumbled curse as Sherlock rocked his hips forward. It took John a few seconds to regain control of his movements, but soon he was thrusting with intent. Sherlock stopped caring about the embarrassing noises he was letting out, because John himself muffled a number of moans in the most delicious manner. He moved like he was dancing, and it was hypnotizing enough that Sherlock threw both arms back above his head, not wanting to touch himself and disturb the picture, arching and aching for more, more, more. He might have said the words out loud, because John’s hands gripped on his hips so strongly he would have bruises. Every shove hit the perfect spot and Sherlock felt himself go mad. How, just how could John have such a perfect intuition of a man’s desires.

As much as they wanted the moment to be suspended in time and never end, they had both been wanting this so bad it took neither of them long to climax. Sherlock came when John inadvertently – or perhaps not – brushed a hand to his cock, and John followed within a second with an almost shocked cry. For a moment he stayed there, still inside Sherlock and looking at him in a peculiar way that the young genius for all his brains was is no state to interpret right now. As he pulled out, John leaned in to place a kiss at the base of Sherlock’s neck. Then he slumped back beside him, still shaking from his release and catching his breath; he pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder and traced a circle in the gooey mess on the younger man’s stomach with a little laugh.

“That.” He said. “Was amazing. Best only gay sex I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock smiled, but he pulled away, grabbing a towel to clean himself up. Suddenly he was ill at ease with John’s last tender gesture. Sex he knew about. Cuddling, not so much. For good measure, he plucked the condom from John and licked clean his softening cock, making him shudder. But something in him did not want to replace the image of John’s orgasm, still imprinted on his retinas, with random post-coital fondling, and he soon drew back.

“I’ll take a shower.” He said.

There was a whole lot more left unsaid behind his words, and he stood there looking at John to see what drift he would catch.

“Can I stay?” John asked.

Well, apparently a joined shower wasn’t on the menu just yet, if he had thought Sherlock would want him gone when he came out of the bathroom. Sherlock didn’t say anything. He had never forced himself on anyone and he wasn’t going to start now. He convinced himself it wasn’t disappointment he felt. But he was definitely off balance about the request. What did one do in those situations?

“Don’t you have to be up at six or something in that military school of yours?” He said eventually.

John laughed.

“I’m not in military school, I’m in medical school. I just want to join the army later.”

“What a strange idea.” Sherlock commented.

“What?” John frowned. “To want to help Queen and country?”

“You’re not going to help Queen and country.” Sherlock pointed out. “You’re going to help poor sods who have been shot at or had their leg blown up in wars that are not helping anyone.”

“Let’s not talk politics.” John advised. “Especially not when we’re both stark naked.”

He sat up, and started fumbling around for any of his clothes.

“Wait.” Sherlock stopped him. “You can stay.”

His discomfort was evident. He didn’t want to be rude, but he had never understood the second half of one-night stands, that part when people wanted to sleep in the same bed just for the sake of it and even maybe get breakfast. Not that he was ruling John out as a one-night stand, because if he could get more he would. But then how did you draw the line between boyfriend and sex-friend if you allowed the latter to sleep over?

“I think I’d better go.” John said, whether he had read some of Sherlock’s confusion on his face or not.

He got up and dressed calmly, Sherlock still standing there, starting to feel the cold creep up his naked skin. He didn’t know if it was lack of habit of if his stamina left to be desired, but sex drained him. He really just wanted a hot shower and oblivious sleep.

“Well.” John finally said, looking around for any forgotten items. Finding none, he turned back to Sherlock and smiled. “I’ll call you.”

Of all the people who had ever said that to him, John was the first one Sherlock believed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would Sherlock be without his favourite arch-enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and silly :) but I have to pretend there is some kind of plot in this story

Sherlock had always thought nobody in his various classes gave a single damn about him and what he was up to, but he was forced to observe that it wasn’t quite the case. A guy he had never talked to leaned towards him in the middle of a ‘Peoples of Central America’ lecture.

“So.” The guy whispered. “How are things going with your boyfriend?”

Startled, Sherlock turned to him – he was smiling, but there was something off about him, maybe in his eyes. His eyes were not smiling, they were cold and intrusive. It made the whole casualty of his person seem affected; the suit jacket over a simple t-shirt, the grey jeans, the black hair carefully arranged. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he had seen him before, then again he didn’t remember people who didn’t make an impression, which was most people as far as he was concerned. 

“Do I know you?” He asked.

The other boy smiled wider, and presented a hand.

“Jim Moriarty. We’ve only been in the same class for two and half months.” He mocked.

“Hm.” Sherlock vaguely acknowledged, not taking the offered hand, turning back to his notes instead.

He wasn’t actually taking notes on what the lecturer was saying, more on what he wasn’t saying, on any gap in his argumentation and knowledge. He wasn’t sure it would owe him a good mark if he used that in his next essay, but he couldn’t help himself. He let this Jim guy look over his shoulder at what he was scribbling for a moment, although it made him tense. He seemed to lose interest after a few minutes.

“Well?” He prompted again. 

“What?” Sherlock almost snapped.

Was he for real?

“Your boyfriend.” Moriarty reminded him.

“Beside the fact that it none of your business,” Sherlock said coldly, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The other boy raised a brow. His smile hadn’t faded.

“Well, you certainly walk and sit like you had sex last night.” He stated. 

Sherlock could only stare at him. This conversation was utterly surreal. In what world was Sherlock Holmes discussing his sex life with a complete stranger?

“Still a bit sore, are you not?” Jim went on.

“Can you stop?” Sherlock winced. “I don’t know why you think this is appropriate, but I don’t think whatever I do of my nights concerns you.”

Moriarty’s smile widened, if it was possible, and he slid a hand across the table. Sherlock looked down to see he was giving him a business card.

“Well if he wasn’t your boyfriend, call me, next time you want to do something of your night that doesn’t concern me.”

With that, he just got up and left the classroom – the lecturer didn’t stop and hardly anyone lifted their eyes. Sherlock was the only one to watch him go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sex (what do you mean there's no plot?)

Sherlock had heard things about the customary three days guys took to call back, but he didn’t know if it applied when sex had already happened. At any rate, John called him after two days, on the Tuesday mid-afternoon.

“It’s John.” He said when Sherlock picked up. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you were free tonight. I could drive to your uni.”

At least there was no pretence about why he was calling – not that Sherlock minded. If he was honest with himself, it was the first time he had ever wanted, _needed_ sex so soon after he had last had it. He wasn’t entirely sure Jim Moriarty’s taunts had nothing to do with it.

“I have no particular plans.” Sherlock informed John.

“Okay.” John smiled at the other end of the line – Sherlock could sense it. “Wait for me in something sexy then, I’ll be there in twenty.”

Sherlock almost laughed as he hung up. _Wait for me in something sexy?_ Nobody had ever dared anything that cheesy on him before. Nobody would have gone away with it. But it was John, and he was plain and honest: he wasn’t saying that because it sounded like something he should say to please his lover. He just wanted to see Sherlock in something sexy. Which was something else the middle Holmes didn’t quite understand. He didn’t care what John or anyone was clad in if he was going to strip them naked anyway.

But he changed into fitting black jeans and his purple shirt – the one that was slightly small and outlined his upper body perfectly, he had been told. When John arrived, he knew the information had been reliable.

“Well.” John eyed him with appreciation, dropping his coat on a chair. “I’m underdressed, it seems.”

“Depends on the angle.” Sherlock replied. “I would personally say you are shockingly overdressed.”

He was sitting on his bed indolently, waiting for John to come to him. Which didn’t take too long. John climbed on his lap like a needy child would, knees digging into Sherlock’s thighs in such a way he could pretend he was taller than him. He knitted a hand into his hair and pulled his head back to kiss him, a soft press of the lips at first, a flicker of tongue. He took Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged lightly, then finally kissed him full, tongue rolling on his tongue, his other hand sliding up Sherlock’s neck and resting there against his pulse. There was a moan, and Sherlock wasn’t sure which mouth it had come out of, but it could unsurprisingly be his. John Watson was the only person he could think of who was able to make him hard with nothing but a kiss.

It didn’t stay nothing but a kiss long enough for Sherlock to reflect on it at length however, as John started undoing the strained buttons of his shirt, kissing the skin he uncovered as he went along. He traced his tongue along Sherlock’s collarbone, up until he buried his face in his neck as he was still working down the buttons. Sherlock shuddered as John sunk his teeth softly into his skin. Then he moved lower to suck on a nipple, as hard as if he was trying to draw milk from it. Sherlock let him, keeping his arms pressed to his sides, feeling the heat gather and pulse in his groin. John had lowered himself down, one leg each side of Sherlock’s now, and his own hardness was brushing against his thighs teasingly. Still moving downwards, John stuck his tongue into Sherlock’s navel, and it was so surprisingly sensitive Sherlock jerked back and his head violently hit the wall.

John sat up to look at him, concerned by the loud thump it had made.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock growled. “Don’t stop.”

John had reached the last shirt button, so he moved on to the jeans button. And discovered with much pleasure that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Oh, you took me at my word.” He noted gleefully.

“Which isn’t really fair.” Sherlock retorted. “Considering I’m still seeing this jumper. Come on, it’s not even that cold. It’s like Quinn and his bloody cardigans.”

“Please don’t bring up your brother when we’re about to have sex.” John winced slightly.

As if to prove his point, he got up and removed both shirt and jumper together, and Sherlock effectively forgot about jumpers and cardigans and brothers. John was back on him with a kiss, and this time he pressed his whole body against him, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against Sherlock’s cock, separating him from John’s own obvious erection.

“Oh, fuck me.” Sherlock breathed.

He had never enjoyed too much foreplay, he preferred sex to be straight to the point, but more than ever he just couldn’t wait.

“Just fuck me.” His voice came out strangled.

It sent the blood right to John’s groin, and he fumbled with his button and zipper, maneuvering Sherlock at the same time so he was lying on his back. On his own accord, however, Sherlock wriggled out of between John’s knees, eased his jeans of himself and turned, resting on his knees and elbows and presenting himself to John. He heard his breath catch.

“If you lose one more second admiring my body out loud,” Sherlock warned, “I will tie you to the bed and fuck myself on you.”

“Oh.” John responded in a very hoarse voice. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

Sherlock was going to ask if he really wanted that, but next thing he knew John was slipping his tongue around and into his hole.

“Next time.” He mouthed against Sherlock’s skin. “You look too good like this.”

Sherlock let out a groan that might have been John’s name.

“Hurry up.” He panted. “Hurry up and get inside me.”

“I’ll hurt you.” John pointed out.

“No.” Sherlock countered. “Maybe. I don’t care, I want it rough. I want it now.”

“I am not hurting you.” John insisted.

This being said, he slipped a finger in, with his saliva for only lube. Sherlock quivered, pushing back into John’s hand, voicelessly begging for more. John loosened him up as quickly as he could, and at the same time, as far as Sherlock could gather, reached for a condom in his pocket, which he tore open with his teeth and clumsily rolled on himself with one hand. When he decided Sherlock was ready enough, he wasted no time taking his jeans fully off, and the rough fabric brushed against the back of Sherlock’s thighs as John pushed inside him.

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock breathed. “Come on, harder.”

And let Jim Moriarty notice. Sherlock was pretty sure it wasn’t a good thing that another guy came to his mind while having sex with John (or anyone), but it wasn’t like he had any control over his thoughts. His mind quickly became blank anyway as John started pushing back and forth into him, any worry about hurting him visible gone. And it did hurt, to be honest, Sherlock was still a bit too tight, but he didn’t care. As John’s cock successfully and repeatedly hit his prostate, the pleasure was far more intense than the pain.

He came before John – how could he not, when John was not only so effectively fucking him, but touching him all over like he had more than just two nimble hands – and John seemed to drive even harder for the last few thrusts before his own orgasm made him cry out as he came inside Sherlock.

“Oh, God.” He whispered as he rode out the shock wave and eventually pulled out.

Sherlock let himself fall limply on his stomach on the mattress, and he expected John to follow suit, but he heard him swear instead – and he sounded panicked, so Sherlock turned.

“What?”

John was looking at his cock, wide-eyed, hand hovering about it as if he didn’t dare touch it. Sherlock looked, and there was a bit of blood on the condom.

“I’m sorry.” John blurted out. “Oh God I’m so sorry.”

His eyes flickered towards Sherlock’s ass – he clearly didn’t know what to do. Sherlock decided not to move, as such there were less chances he would offer John the horrifying sight of blood trickling down his thighs.

“I’m okay.” He promised.

“You’re not okay!” John countered. “You’re bleeding!”

“Minor bleeding.” Sherlock said. “It will heal in no time, it’s just sensitive skin down there that’s all.”

“I’m a doctor.” John scolded. “I know that if you’re bleeding it mean you have a tear and-”

“And it will heal.” Sherlock repeated. “I did ask for rough.”

“And I shouldn’t have listened.” John sulked.

Sherlock sat up – blood or no blood – to cup John’s face and kiss him.

“I’m fine.” He insisted. “This might sound crude, but even if you’re the doctor here, I’m the one with anal sex experience. Don’t worry about me.”

John leaned in to kissed him back.

“Why shouldn’t I.” He whispered.

Sherlock didn’t know how to answer that. He pulled back, frowning. To his surprise, John almost laughed.

“You really don’t do sentiment, do you?” He mocked him. “Relax, I’m not marrying you yet. But as long as I keep having sex with you, I will worry about your well-being. Deal with it.”

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, sitting back on his duvet, certain there would be a blood stain when he next got up. Laundry was the last thing on his mind though.

“So, doctor.” He asked teasingly. “What’s your medical advice on future sexual intercourse? How long should I wait before it’s safe to do it again?”

John took the question seriously, and allowed himself a minute to think about it.

“A week.” He said in the end. “And not before the doctor examines you even then.”

“Sounds kinky.” Sherlock commented.

“I’m not joking.” John said firmly. “I am not fucking you again until you’re perfectly healed.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed.

He didn’t dare suggest they could meet sooner than that, if John was on the receiver’s end. He wasn’t sure the guy was quite ready for this – especially not after seeing what damage could actually be done. John got up, disposed of the bloodied condom with a shiver and pulled his jeans up, looking around for the rest of his clothes.

“I’m not staying.” He announced, not asking for Sherlock’s opinion this time. “I have to be up early. You rest your ass. Literally.” He added with a chuckle.

Well, Sherlock thought, at least he wasn’t traumatized.

“I’ll keep you updated.” He pledged humorously.

As John moved towards him one last time to kiss him goodbye, Sherlock thought it was beginning to feel a little too much like an enjoyable habit, kissing John. Like a habit he saw no reason to give up. No, worse than that, actually.

Like an addiction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll make something of all this and it's not just a this-fic-is-not-100%-sex interlude.

Sherlock was more than glad not to have any classes that Wednesday morning. As much as he had reassured John the night before on his being perfectly fine, the slightest movement of either of his legs sent pangs of pain up his ass. He hadn’t even tried sitting down, and had taken to do his homework lying flat on his belly on his bed – after he had changed the sheets, and promised himself to order an extra set, because two suddenly didn’t seem quite enough.

Not moving all day had seemed like a good plan at first, but Sherlock found himself unable to concentrate after an hour or so, and he knew he would have to find a substitute soon if he couldn’t get his fix on John for another week. He felt he was already suffering from withdrawal symptoms. 

He found an old packet of cigarettes he had pinched to a classmate a couple months ago – just because he could – cracked open the window and lit one up. Then another. Then another. He stopped at the fifth, when, as he paced up and down the room (as much as his soreness allowed him) he upset the smoke detector, sending the fire alarm screaming in the whole building. He sat back carefully on his bed, waiting for whoever would come and scold him. 

One of the dorm’s managers finally found the source of mischief, and let himself into Sherlock’s room, followed by no other than Jim Moriarty. Sherlock successfully showed no sign of surprise.

“Mr. Holmes.” The manager frowned furiously, wrinkling his nose against the smell of tobacco. “You are aware that we observe a strict non-smoking policy in those dorms.”

“I am aware.” Sherlock answered flatly. “I’ll take it outside next time, sir.”

There was no need to stir unnecessary trouble. 

“Fine.” The manager grumbled. He knew Sherlock to be one of the very few students never causing problems. “We’ll let you go with a warning this time. Is there anything you want to discuss with your student representative?”

He gestured towards Moriarty, who was standing there with a faint smile. 

“No, thank you.” Sherlock declined. He didn’t need the guy to make more assumptions about his sex life.

“Very well.” The manager turned away.

Jim Moriarty lingered for a second, smile broadening a little. 

“See you around, Sherlock.”

He spoke the name as if he was sucking on a boiled sweet.

He left, once again, before Sherlock could come up with a clever answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is stupidly short (once more) but I'll update again tomorrow :) (either this one or Hurricane Drunk)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock starts falling for John (not that he would admit to that)

He hadn’t left John a choice. After deliberation, he had warned him, but he hadn’t left him a choice. It had been more than a week – and ten packets of cigarettes – and he was going insane with want. He stomped his feet against the seat all the way in the cab to John’s, and as soon as he was at his door and John opened it, they were kissing like the world would end.

“Screw you.” Sherlock swore when they parted. “And your medical precautions. If you tell me you can’t fuck me today I swear to God…”

John shut him up with another kiss, thinking of closing the front door with a back kick, and Sherlock felt him just as desperate as he was. They were horny as teenagers and both already hard. Sherlock went down on his knees, and John let him unbutton his jeans, leaning back against the wall. When Sherlock started swirling his tongue around the head of his cock, John tangled his fingers into Sherlock’s black curls and, probably unconsciously, pushed forward a little. Sherlock took him in his mouth, rubbing his tongue against the hard length, grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth, swallowing around him, nodding back and forth, letting John’s cock hit the back of his throat and fighting against the gag reflex. John’s breathing was getting heavier, the hand in Sherlock’s hair gripping tighter.

“Stop.” His strangled voice came out at one point.

Sherlock knew John was close. His own cock, unattended, was painfully hard.

“Don’t want to come on your face.” John breathed. It seemed hard to form sentences.

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock said.

“I do.” John insisted, and he picked up Sherlock’s hand on his hip to help him up. “Don’t like this image. Now bed.”

They virtually ran to John’s room – not that it was a long way to go, considering how tiny the place was – and Sherlock stripped in front of John, eyes fixed on his cock pointing out of his pants. When he had gotten rid of all his clothes, he stepped forward to kiss John, rubbing their erections together teasingly.

“Please.” Sherlock breathed into his mouth. “Get naked.”

John pushed him back at arm’s length, so he would have space to remove his clothes, and he did it slowly.

“You should know.” He said hoarsely, ogling Sherlock almost nervously. “That you are still making me uncomfortable.”

“John.” Sherlock stepped back into his personal space, resting his hands on John’s ribs – he felt him shudder under his touch. “You are beautiful. You are…how do people say that. You’re doing things to me.”

John laughed, and looked at Sherlock with something in his eyes that wasn’t just lust.

“Hell yeah I’m doing things to you.”

He pushed the younger man back until they both fell onto the bed, kissing again. Then John, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down Sherlock’s abdomen, switched to doctor mode.

“Let me look.” He asked.

Sherlock didn’t resist, didn’t say he was just fine. He spread his legs, presented himself to John so he could check him up. After a thorough inspection, John touched a finger to Sherlock’s hole, who couldn’t help but twitch.

“Does it hurt?” John enquired with concern.

“No.” Sherlock answered sincerely. “Your hands are cold.”

“I’ll warm them up.” John said.

He ran them up Sherlock’s thighs, giving him goose bumps.

“Check under the pillow.” He instructed, and Sherlock reached out, bringing his hand back with a bottle of lube.

He chuckled.

“Why are you keeping that here?”

“Thought it would be warmer.” John explained.

He poured some of the lotion of his fingers, and it wasn’t really warm when he pressed one against Sherlock’s entrance. He went painfully slowly about it, making sure he wasn’t straining the muscles and the skin, loosening him up millimetre by millimetre. Sherlock thought he would lose patience and just ask him to fuck him rough again, but he knew John wouldn’t do it and he found himself actually enjoying what the slow process was doing to his body. He would relax, loosen up around John in almost drowsiness, and then John pushed further, or crooked his fingers a certain way, and Sherlock’s whole body would tense up again. It was like electric shocks, ones he felt going straight to his cock. A strong breeze could make him come.

John’s voice almost did.

“Four.” He said simply, and he sounded amazed. “Oh, Sherlock, you’ve taken four of my fingers in you, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”  
Inexplicably, Sherlock felt challenged.

“Is it now.” He murmured with a wry smile.

He pulled himself away from John’s hand, and without leaving him time to protest, grabbed him at the hips and almost slammed him into the mattress. John looked startled for about half a second, but it very soon dawned on him what Sherlock was about to do. His breath hitched.

Sherlock straddled him, took the time to lean forward and plant a kiss on his lips. Then he grabbed John’s hard cock between his legs, and pressed the head to his very well prepared hole. John’s eyes fluttered closed when Sherlock lowered himself on him. John’s cock slid in easily, and with a few careful thrusts he was into Sherlock to the brim. John made an inarticulate sound that might have been Sherlock’s name.

“Move with me.” Sherlock whispered.

He started swaying his hips, and John dug his fingernails into his thighs, as if trying to pull him even closer. He pressed Sherlock down and heaved himself up at the same time, and if they could fuse they would have. Sherlock lifted himself up, and let himself fall again on John, repeatedly, unable to breathe properly.

“John, John, John.” He almost chanted in rhythm with his thrusts. “Can’t believe, we had to wait, a week, fuck, John, you feel, so good.”

Sherlock’s voice was deep, laden with sex, and John sprung up, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, and kissed him as if he wanted to steal this voice. They both came almost at the same time, with a shared cry breathed into each other’s mouth.

John fell back on the mattress, and Sherlock pressed his forehead against his chest, taking a moment to catch his breath, feeling John’s hammering heart slowing down beneath his ribs, and his chest rise and fall more and more steadily. Eventually Sherlock straightened up on his knees and let John out of him; ejaculate dripped down his thighs. They had forgotten the condom.

“So.” Sherlock smiled, which was as good a way as another to tell John he had nothing to worry about. “What’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen now?”

“You.” John smiled back, reaching out to pull him down until he was lying beside him. He didn’t seem worried at all, for neither of them. “All of you.”

He wrapped an arm around him, and Sherlock didn’t mind. He didn’t want to go just yet.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight.” John said as if he had read his mind. “You’re sex on legs, you reek of me. I’m not letting you into any taxi. You’re staying.”

“As long as there’s no _spooning.”_ Sherlock spoke the world with a little scorn and much more mockery.

John chuckled. After a moment – Sherlock had almost fallen asleep – his voice rose again.

“Wasn’t it worth waiting?”

“Definitely.”

“Look at you.” John concluded drowsily. “You’re learning patience.”


	8. Chapter 8

John had insisted to take him out for coffee, because he had nothing to offer him from his kitchen, and Sherlock was late for class already anyway. Sherlock accepted, because they were in the middle of a conversation about that murder case in the papers, and John proved surprisingly able to keep up and make the talk interesting. 

The little coffee shop was deserted and bleak. John looked a little embarrassed.

“Sorry.” He said. “It’s not a very nice neighbourhood. But Olga is an angel and she makes the best coffee.”

Olga though, angel of best coffee or not, was nowhere in sight. The shop was completely empty.

“She must be in the back.” John said. “Let me get her.”

Sherlock followed after John, not feeling particularly like standing by himself aimlessly in the middle of a coffee shop. Besides, he had something else in mind, ever since he had woken up next to John’s naked body. He had never woken up sharing a bed with someone before. It had scared him into the bathroom, and he had let the burning water from the shower calm him down. But now he wished he had waited a couple of minutes for John to wake up and join him under the sprinkler. 

Olga wasn’t in the back – at least, not in the portion they explored before Sherlock pushed John into a storeroom and started kissing him. John indulged for a moment, put drew back eventually.

“Let’s get out before someone sees us.” He said.

Sherlock leaned forward again.

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”

“Really?” John sounded a little worried. “You’re really thinking of- Oh.”

Sherlock had slid a knee between John’s legs, nudging his groin.

“Stop this.” John hissed. 

“Make me.” Sherlock retorted. 

He kissed John again, hands groping his ass to press him harder against his knee. He could feel him getting hard and gradually giving up trying to resist. He shut the door behind them, leaving them in the yellowish light of the single bare light bulb.

“Are you serious.” John groaned, but he kissed Sherlock back with renewed intensity, hands pulling on his shirt as if he was trying to tear it to shreds. 

Sherlock sneaked a hand between them, fumbling to unbutton John’s jeans, then his – at this point John’s fingers tangled with his and in no time their hands were joined together around both their hardening lengths. They didn’t break the kiss for more than a second throughout the process, and they didn’t stop either as their started rubbing their hands and cocks together. They didn’t know anymore who was touching who, which hand was pressing here or sliding there, if they were jerking themselves off or doing each other. 

They were close to climax when they heard the bell of the shop tinkle – probably Olga returning from an errand down the street. John’s hand stopped and Sherlock’s quickened the pace. John tried to protest and he shut him up with more kissing – it felt almost experimental to Sherlock, to see how long they could keep snogging without starting to bleed. Olga was singing now, thinking she was alone in her shop surely, and they could hear her voice over their erratic breathing. They came within seconds of each other, with a sharp intake of breath from each other’s mouth, and half collapsed to the floor, sitting against the wall to catch their breath.

It took one look between them and they broke into fits of laughter, unable to stop for a whole minute or so, John trying to muffle his giggles into Sherlock’s shoulder.

When they could finally breathe normally, John produced a convenient packet of tissues from his pocket and cleaned them up. Both their shirts were ruined, but thankfully they could close their coats over the mess. 

“That.” He said with a last giggle. “Was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Really?” Sherlock smiled. “You live a dull life.”

“I live a normal life, you’re the one who’s overly insane.” John retorted.

“To be honest.” Sherlock replied. “I hadn’t had that much fun in a long time.”

“I’m flattered.” John said jokingly. After a pause, he added, not much more seriously: “How are we going to get out of here?”

“We could try opening the door.” Sherlock suggested. 

“Idiot.”

“Seriously.” Sherlock insisted, getting up and tucking himself in. “We’ll just tell your friend Olga we were looking for the bathroom. Come on.”

“She’ll never buy that.” John sighed, imitating him. 

They got out as naturally as possible, coming back front, surprising Olga, giving her their excuse. She didn’t believe that, she saw right through them actually, given the wink she threw John as they hurried out.

“I’m never setting foot in this café again.” John pledged when they were back on the street, mortified.

“Oh come on.” Sherlock rebuked him humorously. “We behaved very inappropriately in her store room and her reaction was basically to congratulate you for scoring me. How could it possibly have gone better?”

“You love breaking rules, don’t you?” John accused. 

“Bending them.” Sherlock moderated. “Finding the loopholes. Besides, there is no rule against what we just did.”

“Hum, decency?” John opposed. “Private property?”

“It was open.” Sherlock defended. “And nobody saw us. Come on, John. Admit you liked it. I noticed how the sense of danger aroused you even more, you know.”

“Of course you did.” John sighed. “Fine, it wasn’t altogether a bad moment. Let’s just not make a habit of it.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock said noncommittally. “When am I next seeing you in a perfectly safe and private place then?” He asked, hoping not to sound too eager.

The truth was he knew it was becoming harder and harder (no pun intended) for him to go without a dose of John for too long. 

“Monday?” John proposed. “I have a heap of homework to get through over the weekend and I actually need to get some sleep sometimes, but I should be free Monday.”

“Good.” Sherlock nodded. “My place?”

“If you want.”

They arrived at the tube station. They looked at each other, John had a tensed smile.

“Monday.” He repeated. “I’ll see you then.”

They didn’t kiss, and Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure it was just because they were in an open public space. John was looking at him like he had just realized he was a dangerous person. 

As he went down the stairs, Sherlock wondered if he wasn’t underestimating the danger for himself. In the tube he closed his eyes and remembered how he had felt upon waking up in John’s warm arms this morning. 

Complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write a fic in which, for once, Sherlock is the one who falls in love... Hope I'm getting that accross :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some more sex before some kind of plot starts.

Sherlock spent four whole days feeling direly the lack of John, and it scared him. He was very independent. He had never needed anyone – and no-one had ever needed him, not even Quinn really, past the time when he could not yet walk and Sherlock pushed his pram around the house. Not that John needed him now. Not that _he_ needed John, that wasn’t it, not exactly. Of course he could live without him. But somehow, Sherlock’s life was a lot more colourful when he was in it. It was probably the first time ever Sherlock realised he could have fun without pissing someone off. John was fun to be around. He had never met someone that was fun to be around – people that were fun to mock, yes, but Sherlock never more than tolerated others’ company. John’s he enjoyed.

That, and the sex was really good.

Come Monday he wanted to talk about it, although he didn’t know how to bring it up, because neither of them had signed up for feelings, and in his case it seemed odd to even mention their possible existence. But Sherlock had a logical mind and the facts were the facts: he was not regarding John the same way he had a couple of weeks before, and it didn’t all have to do with the fact they had sex four times since the night they’d first met. He knew that much.

John didn’t seem to be going through any kind of similar emotional turmoil. He was just horny, and that was catching; Sherlock had forgotten all about his existential questioning five minutes after opening the door to John.

How could he not. All clothes had vanished on both sides, and John had apparently decided that he would lick every inch of Sherlock’s skin tonight. He discovered there was a whole range of unexpectedly sensitive erogenous zones on his body. His cock was hard as a rock and glistening with pre-come, and John’s tongue hadn’t even come near it yet.

“You’re very quiet tonight.” John spoke at one point, sucking on a nipple gently. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d let me take my time like this without saying anything.”

“Well, you did teach me patience.” Sherlock answered.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, and Sherlock was amazed that he would perceive it.

“Nothing.” He lied.

John sat back on his haunches, frowning.

“You seem a little less eager than usual.” He noted. “Am I boring you?”

“What?” Sherlock reacted, heaving himself up on his elbows to better look at John. “No! Of course not.”

“Well you did warn me.” John sighed, not taking Sherlock’s denial of his assumption into consideration. “It’s okay. I’ll finish you off and I’ll go.”

He started leaning in to take Sherlock into his mouth, but Sherlock stopped him, knitting his fingers into his hair.

“John.”

John looked up, pushing slightly into Sherlock’s hand, and he looked so damn sexy Sherlock was tempted for one second to just pull forward and fuck his mouth shamelessly. But he couldn’t do that with John thinking he had gotten tired of it.

“I’m just happy with making this moment last longer.” Sherlock said, trying to sound convincing, because it wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to say _I really missed you, I want you in me right now, and again until morning, and please can we see each other more often because this bloody patience thing is killing me_.

Not really his style. Not to mention the part of his brain that was trying furiously to smother the feeling.

John had a little laugh.

“Ironically,” he said, “hearing you say that really makes me want to fuck you right this instant.”

“Oh, do get started.” Sherlock replied huskily.

John grabbed the lube on the bedside table and started preparing Sherlock for him, working his way slowly but steadily up to four fingers. It amazed him like it had the first time.

“Can I...” He asked hesitantly. “Can I fist you?”

Sherlock let out a surprised snigger.

“And there you were thinking you could be boring me.” He answered.

John took that as a yes. He pulled out his fingers a little, and added in his thumb before pushing his hand back in, slowly, careful not to put too much strain on Sherlock’s hole.

“You know.” Sherlock panted. “This is going to hurt however sluggishly you’re going. But it’s the good kind of hurt. Bring it on, I can take it.”

John took a sharp intake of breath, poured more lube on his hand, and pressed it fully in. Sherlock muffled a moan that was only half pleasure, but soon the sensation of John’s fist clenching in him was so overwhelming it completely succeeded in overriding the discomfort.

“Oh my God.” John was breathing erratically. “Oh my God.”

He somewhat twisted his arm, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back the inarticulate sound he made.

“Are you okay?” John asked breathlessly.

“Oh yes.” Sherlock ensured, equally out of breath.

John bent forward and kissed him, fist still buried into him, and it was so much at once that Sherlock almost came right then, moaning into John’s mouth and tightening his ass around his wrist. It made John jerk back, gasping. He looked amazed and a little spooked about the whole process, but he didn’t withdraw his hand. He didn’t actually move it at all, which Sherlock thought could be improved.

“Make me come.” He said like a challenge.

Whether John was aware of what he was doing exactly or not, it took about ten seconds for him to live up to Sherlock’s expectations. He unfolded his fingers inside him, twisting and pushing forward at the same time, and it was like Sherlock didn’t even know where John was touching him anymore. But he did hit his prostate, and it took two strokes before he was climaxing, eyes rolling back in his skull and white strings spilling on his chest. His cock hadn’t even been touched.

John removed his hand from Sherlock’s ass slowly, and tied it around himself immediately, but Sherlock sat up, grabbed his wrists, toppled him over on the bed and took him into his mouth. As Sherlock shifted his hands to hold onto John’s hips, John weaved all ten fingers into Sherlock’s damp curls and gripped tight. Sherlock made him come within a few minutes of sucking and swirling his tongue, and he swallowed as a reflex, finding it rather unpleasant if he had to be honest.

They spent a moment catching their breath, John’s hands still tangled into Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s stomach. Eventually John stirred up, got up, looked back at Sherlock...and laughed.

“Good God, you look a mess.”

He leaned back in to kiss him, almost possessively.

“I’m rather proud to have unravelled you so, Sherlock Holmes. From what I know it’s not an easy task.”

Sherlock said nothing, smiling without joy. No, it wasn’t an easy task.

John didn’t seem to push his reasoning far enough to understand how special it made him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid Sherlock is not quite done being a knucklehead yet.

On the Wednesday Sherlock deemed two days were enough of a wait and asked John if he wanted to meet again. John called him back five minutes after he had sent the text.

“Sherlock? I just got your message. I can’t come tonight, I have a friend’s birthday party. I would have offered to come later, but I suspect we’ll still be at it early tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.” Sherlock answered, trying to convince himself he wasn’t disappointed.

“Would you like to come?” John asked in a breath.

Sherlock snorted.

“To a party? Have you met me?”

“Yes.” John answered playfully. “At a party.”

“That was exceptional.” Sherlock said.

“Well.” John said more hesitantly. “Want to make another exception for me?”

Sherlock sensed he should have answered yes to that. But he couldn’t bring himself to.

“You don’t want to take me out.” He sighed. “I’ll be insufferable and you’ll be ashamed of me. Not to mention I don’t think you’ve come out to your friends yet, have you? “

“I want to take you out.” John countered, not very forcefully.

“No.” Sherlock answered. “You want _someone_ you can take out. That’s not me.”

There was a moment of silence, before John concluded in an ice-cold voice:

“Fine.”

He hung up on Sherlock, who was almost tempted to call back at once. But he had to be realistic. He liked sleeping with John, but he wasn’t ready to be paraded as the curiosity new _boyfriend._ He wasn’t even sure he tolerated that word, boyfriend. It suited the like of Quinn, and maybe John, but certainly not Sherlock. Boyfriend. What next.

On the Thursday Sherlock realized he should have gone to the stupid party. He wanted John, he needed more of him. He was even ready to let the guy call him his boyfriend if he pleased, he really didn’t care, as long as he could keep seeing him. He texted him again.

This time John didn’t call, but texted back some hours later.

_Horribly hung-over. Call you tomorrow if haven’t died._

Sherlock tried his best not to read that in a cold tone.

On the Friday, John did call, and he didn’t sound mad, but his voice wasn’t particularly warm either.

“Sherlock.” He took a deep breath after five minutes of summarizing the party on one side, complaining about classes on the other. “I think we should stop seeing each other for a while.”

Sherlock felt like a bucket of cold water had just been dropped on his head.

“What?”

“To be honest, I met a girl at the party. I’d like to see her again. I think she does too.”

He seemed to wait for Sherlock to say something. When that didn’t happen, he went on.

“It wouldn’t be fair to her if I kept sleeping with you while we’re giving it a go.”

Silence, still.

“You understand, right?” John asked.

“Is this because I didn’t want to come with you to your stupid party?” Sherlock asked blankly.

“Well you said it yourself didn’t you?” John snapped back, unhappy to hear what sounded like a personal attack. “I want someone I can take out.”

“And finding a girl for that was easier than coming out of the closet.” Sherlock concluded. “Yes, I understand.”

“I’m not gay.” John defended.

“Oh.” Sherlock sneered. “You could have fooled me.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” John was starting to get annoyed. “I’m not saying I didn’t like doing it with you, Sherlock, if I’m honest that was probably the best sex I’ve ever had, counting the heterosexual experiences. But we’re never going to get married and have children.”

“We live in a modern world.” Sherlock countered. “Even that is possible.”

“What are you talking about?” John reacted, confused. “You didn’t even _want_ me to take you out to one party!”

“Yes, and you didn’t waste any time jumping on the occasion to make that a generality.”

Sherlock had never felt like this. Like his heart was taking control of his mouth instead of letting his brain feed it the appropriate things to say. He had never felt this possessive either. Even in kindergarten, he never played with anything interesting by other kid’s standards, so no-one had ever stolen his toys (or, in this case, wooden brain-teaser puzzles). He didn’t know what it was to compete for something. To not have what he wanted. To feel something – let alone someone – slip through his fingers.

“Sherlock.” John started speaking again, and he realized there had been a long silence. “I’m sorry if there was some kind of misunderstanding or if you think I’ve led you on, but you and me were just friends with benefits, we were not dating or-”

“Dating!” Sherlock snorted, pulling himself together. “Don’t be stupid, of course we were not dating. Do you really think that’s my style?”

“No.” John said very finally, and almost sadly.

“Good, well, have fun on the other side, and don’t hesitate to call me if you miss sucking cock. Bye.”

He hung up, throwing the phone on the bed angrily. Good, that was over, he wouldn’t have to worry about John any more, and maybe those annoying buds of sentiment would just go away now. Being alone, relying on reason and logic, that was a lot better for him. A lot safer. John was heroine all over again. He had tried it noncommittally at first, not even really wanting it. Just to try. Then it had become a habit, then a welcome addiction, then one he realized had to get rid of. John would eventually get out of his system, just like heroin had.

But somehow, Sherlock had the feeling it would be a lot more painful.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly the unsatisfactory summary of what you can read at more length in Hurricane Drunk - with an end twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this is short. For those who might not have gone and read the other parts of the series (you never know), the conversation between Sherlock and Quinn is available in Chapter 12 of Hurricane Drunk.

After he had spend the rest of Friday, the whole of Saturday, and a good part of Sunday going in circles asking himself why John had become such a drug to him and how he could make it stop hurting, Sherlock decided to go and consult Quinton. He did about three false starts, because the simple fact of going to his brother was already admitting this was a matter of the heart, but in the end he went. Because it did hurt, and there was nothing he seemed to be able to do about it.

He didn’t go into that much detail with Quinn. The feelings were too new to share. They were too new to even put a name on. Quinn helped to analyse what John and Sherlock were before they were nothing at all anymore. As Sherlock had suspected, there had been something, and he had probably trampled it with his insensitiveness. Which was why John had gone and looked for someone more normal, surely. Which Quinton quickly pinpointed did not leave Sherlock indifferent.

They pushed the matter further to Did Sherlock want John back. Of course he did. The real question was did John want _him_ if he didn’t change the way he was. But Sherlock had never changed for anyone’s sake, and he didn’t want to start. And when Quinn couldn’t help on the sexual aspect of things, the conversation drifted to a whole different kind of interesting.

Until Quinn hit him right in the heart by spelling out what love was. In short, _being._ Not doing anything with someone, not wanting anything from them. Just being with them, and being happy that they’re in your life. That was how Quinton felt about James. And Sherlock did not understand this for one bit. How could one be expected not to die of boredom? Was that the kind of things John would expect from him if they became a couple? Would he expect him to _be_ there for him, even if they had nothing concrete to do together, to _be_ by his side in a variety of situations even if those situations were profoundly uninteresting?

When he left the undergraduates dorms, he was more confused than he was an hour before. How did people cope all day with all the feelings of all kinds they freely let in and out? It was exhausting thinking so much when there was no logic whatsoever to apply to those thoughts. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock wished he could feel like anyone else, and express those feelings. Maybe then John would have stayed. Maybe then he could have kept close the first person in a very long time that made him happy for no reason.

Frustrated, Sherlock plunged his hand into his pocket in the hope of finding a stranded cigarette. Instead of that, his fingers closed on a piece of paper. He took it out, expecting a bus pass or something, but it was a business card – or a mockery of one.

  
**_~James Moriarty~_ **   
**_at your service_ **   
**_07xxx xxx xxx_ **   


He stared at it for a long time, until he was cold from standing there without moving.

Well.

John had already moved on, hadn’t he?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hark, a new chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not in a good place, as you can see by the amount of misery in this chapter.

Jim had been absolutely delighted to get Sherlock’s call and had come right over. Very clearly, all he had had in mind ever since meeting Sherlock was to get into his pants. He explained that himself very straightforwardly, with a smile, pacing up and down the room removing layers of clothing.

“Not only are you a beautiful man, but you actually have brains. I so hate those cows who want all sorts of... _things_ from a relationship. They won’t understand it can just be about intellectual and physical stimulation. I’ve been watching you. I know _you_ do.”

Stimulation, Sherlock thought. That’s just what it is. So as not to rot in misery because Hell, he was missing John. He was missing his touch and he was missing his comments and his smile and – he grabbed Jim by the nape of his neck and stuck his tongue into his mouth.

It hurt even more. It tasted like betrayal, it felt disgusting. But at least it was something different than just the pain of rejection. Disgust, betrayal. At least he could blame himself.

Jim kissed him back, pushing him towards the bed, until they fell together in a tangle of limbs. Jim left his mouth to trace a trail of kisses down his neck, and up his stomach as he then pull up his shirt. Sherlock let him take the lead, remembering John, and not wanting to participate in the act if it wasn’t with him. Which defeated the whole purpose of having called Jim in the first place, he realized, but he couldn’t bring himself to show any sign of affection or even plain attraction. He wasn’t attracted to this man. He was attracted to John. But John didn’t want him anymore. So maybe he could trick his body into forgetting about him.

And his looks.

And his sounds.

And his touch.

And his scent.

And his taste.

Through all five senses he still wanted John, only John. It was too soon for this. He hadn’t even tried to get him back. Maybe he could still get him back. He was about to tell Jim to stop, when the phone rang on the bedside table, and Jim grabbed it before Sherlock could react.

“He’s busy.” He spoke into the receiver, and hung back up. Then he looked at the screen. “John.” He read. “Friend of yours?”

Sherlock felt like a stab in the heart, and tried to push Jim off of him.

“Hey, relax.” Jim cooed. “You can call him back when we-”

“Get off.” Sherlock cut him short, suddenly sick.

What was he doing. What the fuck was he doing. Jim reached a hand to his cheek, trying to soothe him, but it only made Sherlock see red.

“Get off!” He shouted. “Out! Get out!”

There was a look of pure hatred for a moment in Jim’s eyes, but he said nothing, collected his jacket and shoes and did as he was told. Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath, and he called John back.

He picked up at the second ring.

“I don’t want to speak to you.”

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that yet, against the logic of that, he had answered the phone.

“John.” He spoke in a voice he didn’t know would be so pleading. “That wasn’t... I didn’t...”

“You were going to. “ John interrupted him. “Weren’t you? If I hadn’t called, you just- You just found someone else to fuck you, good for you.”

“Well it’s your fault isn’t it?” Sherlock retorted. “I didn’t really need sex before, I didn’t even want it that often. You showed me how good and addictive it could be, you, you made me addicted to sex and to **you** and then you walked away.”

“Addicted to me?” John almost snorted. “Well, looks like you found a replacement rather easily. What did it take you, a full day and a half?”

“You’re one to talk!” Sherlock answered, feeling attacked. “You meet one random girl at one random party and suddenly I’m not good enough for you?”

“You know that’s not why-”

“No, it’s because I can’t have your babies and fit in your perfect picture of your perfect future family. Which by the way is rather ambitious a train of thought, how long exactly did you think we would last if you hadn’t dumped me?”

“Dumped?” John repeated. “Dumped? We were never a couple, I think you made that clear.”

There was a heavy silence, during which John was perceptibly trying to calm himself.

“Look.” He resumed. “I called to tell you that it didn’t work out with Jeanette, and that I was sorry, because... Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter now does it. Obviously you don’t want to hear it. Say hi to your boyfriend.”

He cut the call, and Sherlock listened to the tone for what felt like hours trying to process what had just happened. He had had a fight with John. It had sounded awfully like a lovers' quarrel. Except they weren’t lovers. Anymore. Except John had called to get him back. And he was with Jim. And now John really didn’t want him. Anymore.

When he recovered some motor function, he pressed a few keys on his phone, doing the only thing he could think of doing.

“Sherlock?” Quinn sounded worried at the other end of the line.

“I screwed up.” Sherlock stated up front.

There was a moment of silence before Quinn, whom Sherlock could imagine frowning, spoke:

“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

“I’m serious.” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t know what to do. I think I’m... Dear God, I think I’m in love.”

It was almost a relief to word it. It seemed to make Quinton panic, on the other hand.

“You’re- Sherlock what- Do you know- Are you sure?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Given the amount of scorn I expressed at the idea in the past, you can imagine that if I’m saying that, I’m probably not joking.”

“Is it John?” Quinton asked.

“Who else.”

Sherlock felt he had found his own definition of love. Who else. If only he had realized it sooner. But what good could come out of retrospective moping.

“Go get him back.” Quinn said.

“What?” He had started wandering in his own thoughts.

“Go get him back.” His little brother repeated. “I don’t know what you did to screw up, but you go find him, and you apologize, and you explain. We’re talking about a guy who made you fall. You, Sherlock Holmes. You don’t let go of someone like that.”

Sherlock nodded – silently, but he knew Quinn would get that somehow.

“I’ll keep you updated.” He promised, to thank him.

“Sure.” Quinn said with a smile in his voice. “Everybody screws up in their relationships, Sherlock, at least once, often a lot more than once. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock concluded after a moment of silence. “I’ll always have some spare love for you, at any rate.”

“And I for you.” Quinton replied. “But it’s only spare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on brotherly love vs love of your life, as I realize the "spare" I used here can seem a little undermining, and the hierarchy (not that you can really rank love) is different for everybody. Because they're Holmes and they don't really do family that much, John and James are probably a bigger deal for Sherlock and Quinn, respectively, than each other, which is a given. I personally have not yet found the person that will make the love I have for my siblings and parents less important, so I'm not sure I can talk about it, but it's for sure a different kind of love. And in Sherlock's case, it's tremendously important to have found someone whom he loves, and who could love him, for no other reason than just because, and not for being family.  
> That is all, thank you :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit stuck on Quinn's side, so here is more Sherlock.  
> Thank you all for your support!

Sherlock took some convincing before he allowed Quinton to tell James about his (failed) relationship with John, but he had to admit the best way to corner the guy was on a Sunday night when they knew he would be drinking with his friend and not expecting Sherlock to drop in on them. James’s presence would also make it less likely for John to choose to bail, lest James called him chicken for the rest of his days.

John didn’t bail, but it was obvious from his face that he was still mad at Sherlock. His eyes were cold, jaw was clenched, and he crossed his arms over his chest in a disapproving stance. Sherlock did his best to muffle down his pride, which was telling him that it wasn’t his fault and John had some nerve putting all the blame on him and staying angry for something that hadn’t even happened. But until further notice, John wasn’t the one in love, so Sherlock had to make the first move. And the whole thing was so not like him he really didn’t know where to begin.

“I screwed up.” He began, feeling more comfortable stating something he had already acknowledged. “I screwed up because, now you’re mad at me, and I don’t want you to be. Calling this guy was an obvious mistake, I knew it, but I did it anyway. I was...missing you. Which was irrational and confusing. I’m not good with irrational feelings.”

“You were missing me so you called a random guy to come and have sex with you?” John sneered. “Yeah, I’d say you’re not too good.”

“And you knew that about me.” Sherlock retorted. “I’ve never been anything but completely transparent about my emotional shortcomings.”

“Oh, come off it!” John snapped. “You barricade yourself behind that belief that you are incapable of common human sentiment – it’s more than a belief actually, it’s your fucking pride and joy. Well guess what, you’re just like the rest of us, you connected with another person and it affected you. Except you acted about it like an asshole.”

“You don’t get to call me an asshole.” Sherlock said sharply. “Can you stop being so aggressive? You don’t get to be mad at me, because _you_ broke things off. And if that’s why you’re angry, if you realize you screwed up first, then don’t take it out on me.”

“No, I didn’t screw up.” John defended himself. “You were ready to jump into bed with someone else, and then there you are on your high horse acting like I’m all you want and I should have known. We never even... I didn’t screw up. I just put some distance between us, I looked at another person, because we were having this casual thing and it...it wouldn’t have stayed casual at the rate we were going, but you seemed scared shitless by the mere concept of feelings, and you’re a _guy,_ you’re the first guy I ever...had this... kind of... interest for.” He struggled. “And, I got afraid, okay? I couldn’t see a future with you. Turned out I couldn’t see one without you either, so there’s that.”

“Wait a second.” Sherlock frowned. “So you saw I was starting to have feelings for you, but you thought I was scared of them, so your idea of dealing with that was to run away?”

“No.” John replied. “What I saw, was you starting to have feelings for me, and nuclear-bombing them in the bud. It’s not even like I asked you to be my boyfriend, I just asked you to come with me to a bloody party, and you scorned that so forcefully it was actually humiliating.”

“Because you telling me, _literally,_ that you were sorry about the misunderstanding, sorry for leading me on, that was not humiliating at all.”

“It wasn’t the same conversation.” John noted.

“So?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“You were sending mixed signals!” John argued.

“I refused a party, because that’s just not who I am!” Sherlock threw back. “I don’t like parties in the first place, and I didn’t want to be paraded, I didn’t want to talk to people about us, or the other way round, I wanted ‘us’ to be just our thing – I don’t see _why_ people have this need to rub their relationships in other people’s faces, it’s just- I digress. I refused a party, John, not because you asked, because it was a party. And then you cut me off and I wasn’t overjoyed about it. That wasn’t mixed signals.”

John rubbed his face, sighing and shaking his head.

“You don’t get it. It wasn’t about the party, it _was_ because I asked. It’s the other way round, don’t you see? I was asking you to do something for me, because I thought you started to care about me, and I wanted to claim that.”

“So you wanted to prove yourself you had some kind of power over me?”

“God, Sherlock, no!” John sounded like he was losing patience. “I just wanted you to want to come to a party with me, it’s as simple as that. I glimpsed that we could be more than sex friends, and I didn’t dislike the idea. And you glimpsed it too, but you, well you hated the idea.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock denied.

He paused; John had the grace to not say anything, even though he looked like he wanted to question that assertion.

“But I wasn’t ready.” Sherlock eventually went on. “And as you said, I’m proud, I was too proud to admit it. I thought you saw that. I thought you saw _me._ But you gave up on me.”

“So did you by calling this guy.” John retorted, but the accusation and resentment in his voice had faded slightly.

“I was hurt.” Sherlock exposed. “Maybe you don’t know me well enough to realize that- I don’t get hurt. My pride gets hurt. My ego certainly. But I, don’t, get hurt. Because I don’t have a heart!”

“Sherlock...”

“Shut up. You know how many people think or even tell me I don’t have a heart? Rhetorical question. But not you. Not you, no, you went right for it, like you knew exactly where to find it – and your aim was excellent. You hurt me, John. And the worst part is, I didn’t realize you would any more than you did. Before it happened, and it just hurt, and I didn’t know what to do because, I don’t get hurt.”

John was speechless now, something indescribable in his eyes. He looked at Sherlock for a while, processing maybe, or trying to read the answers in the lines of the younger man’s face, until the something in his eyes became realization and understanding, and remorse, and eventually he spoke, not diverting his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“I want you back.” Sherlock answered. “I’m proud, but I’ll admit it. It’s not just the sex. You make me function.”

John smiled.

“That’s romantically said.”

He leant in for a kiss, and Sherlock amended his inner definition of romantic.

Right now, he cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will write James hearing about John and Sherlock, eventually, probably in Hurricane Drunk because the James part of the series is not really progressing...


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is sort of more of the same, but I just had a wonderfully horrible idea and I need more time to work on it!

“Why him?”

Sherlock had been wondering for a good twenty minutes when John would finally ask the question that was obviously on his mind. They had decided to start again in the right order, and go for coffee to just talk, with no sex on the agenda. For now. Sherlock hoped it wouldn’t take John too long to recover his trust in him, because as much as he loved John for everything that he was, he did miss the sex.

“I just had his number.” He shrugged. “I didn’t look further.”

“Why did you just have his number?” John further asked, suspiciously.

“Because he gave it to me.” Sherlock stated. “He expressed an interest in me. Which, considering how most people treat me, was a welcome change. If a little creepy in his case.”

John remained silent for a moment, looking down at his coffee – he had drunk only half of it, but the rest must have been cold for a while.

“Did we get involved because I ‘expressed an interest in you’?” He asked eventually.

“Of course we did.” Sherlock frowned. “Don’t act as if you didn’t come up to me looking for sex. I know things have evolved between us now, but I don’t remember you going for me for my charming personality.”

“Your personality was not a deal-breaker either.” John tried to defend himself a little.

“Which is why I then went for you.” Sherlock acknowledged. “It might have been physical attraction, but you never treated me like a freak or found me unbearable. I seldom come across people who enjoy my company. Let alone people who are as good a shag as you are, on top of it.”

“So wait.” John frowned. “You like me because I tolerate you?”

“I like you because you’re you.” Sherlock answered. “Which is the stupidest and most irrational thing I have ever said, but it is no less true. You came into my life – no pun intended. Now I don’t want you out. I can’t explain why. We don’t have to change anything.” He added after a pause.

John looked surprised at that, and maybe a little angry.

“We don’t have to change anything?” He repeated.

“You want more.” Sherlock realized, sounding almost disappointed.

“You don’t?” John replied, definitely getting angry.

Sherlock tried to be both honest and diplomatic.

“I liked the...simplicity of what we had.”

“You mean being fuck buddies.” John snapped. “Boning each other once or twice a week and not even sleeping over.”

“No.” Sherlock said hesitantly. “We can sleep over.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” John almost did not shout, with noteworthy self-control. “Did you follow at least a little of our conversation yesterday? This is not how things work if you have feelings for someone – and I’m talking mutual feelings here. If we’re going to be together-”

“I’m going to disappoint you.” Sherlock cut in.

It defused John’s anger, and he was blank for a second.

“What?”

“I know in all objectivity that my body is highly satisfying to you and that I can offer you decent sex. Great sex, even.” He corrected himself. “Because we have chemistry. I also know that we can talk intelligently; you have proved that to me. We connect, we have fun. But that’s all I’ve got, John, you’ve seen it all. I have nothing more to offer you. I have no idea how to be...a _boyfriend._ I’ll forget important dates, I won’t give you the attention you’d want, I’ll be cold when you need comfort or-”

“Hold on, hold on.” John stopped him. “I never expected you to change for me. I know what you’re like, and if it can be a little frustrating, I know you’re not suddenly going to be all lovey-dovey and whatnot. I’m not asking for it. What I _am_ asking is for you to acknowledge that we’re, well, more than just sex twice a week.”

“That’s a given.” Sherlock frowned.

Hadn’t he already acknowledged that?

“I mean.” John sighed, as if he was explaining something he thought simple to an especially stubborn child. “That people will know we’re together. That we won’t be seeing anyone else. And that we can see each other sometimes and not have sex.”

“Dates.” Sherlock filled in.

“Dates, or not dates.” John said. “What if I just want to show you off by going to the supermarket together, making it obvious to everyone watching that we’re shopping for a dinner I’m going to cook for you before I take you to my bed, because you’re mine and I’m stupidly happy for it?”

Sherlock processed that, not sure whether he liked everything he was hearing.

“You want to cook for me?” He ended up saying, which really wasn’t the most problematic point.

Although in a way, it was. It made everything sound rather...domestic. Or was that romantic?

“Just a random example.” John said. “My point is, I wouldn’t mind the world knowing I’m dating you. It’s not about coming out. It’s about you being stunning, and incredibly clever, and yet.”

“Yet what?” Sherlock asked.

“You picked me.” John smiled. “And if that’s not something I can want to brag about, I don’t know what is. It doesn’t mean you’re a trophy. What really goes on between us is nobody’s business. Our feelings for each other are strictly ours. But I don’t want to put them in a box away from everyone else either. Do you understand?”

Sherlock took a moment to think about his answer. Of course he understood. John was insecure – he could spot that in the way his eyebrows arched and his mouth twitched. He had hit him harder than he’d thought by blowing him off for the party the other day. He was afraid that if Sherlock didn’t want them to officially present themselves as a couple to their entourage, it meant things didn’t matter enough to him, meant he didn’t care enough. Which was as far from the truth as it could possibly be, and surely John realised that when he thought about it, but it didn’t stop him from doubting – less Sherlock that his own worth, which was even sillier. Irrationality, again. Yes, Sherlock understood all of that; but it would probably be a little callous to present things this way.

So instead, he leaned across the table, cupped John’s face and kissed him, in full view of every other patron in the coffee shop.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what have i done

So he was in a couple.

Mostly he didn’t understand why everyone seemed happy about it. Congratulations, great for you guys, and all the like. After half an evening spent with John’s friends – _not_ a party, as John insisted, just some friendly drinks in a pub – he had heard something along those lines from everyone. But every time, every single time, John smiled at him, and pressed his knee against his, or took his hand, or brushed his thigh. The smile was too radiant to say anything.

“Well.” Mike Stamford said eventually. “I should go. Work tomorrow.”

He was the last of John’s friend left around the table – it wasn’t that late, but they’d all seemed to decide, one after the other, that Sherlock (so nice to have met you!) and John had things to do of their own.

“You know what.” John answered. “I have to get up early too. We’re taking the same bus right?”

Mike looked surprised – or more like astonished – when he heard that. John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, we shagged before coming here. Sherlock’s campus is right around the corner, there’s no point for me to take him back all the way to my place. And I have to get up early.”

Sherlock smiled, and instinctively got up to kiss his _boyfriend_ goodbye. He wasn’t getting used to the word. But that was the only part of the relationship that actually caused a bump. They were giving each other exactly the right amount of attention and peace, affection and space, without having to ask, or set boundaries, finding a balance they would never quite have had right if they hadn’t acknowledged their feelings for each other. Sherlock was still amazed at that. Deepening his relationship with John had, in a way, made it simpler. Everything was on the table, straightforward and honest.

Almost.

John had no idea what Jim Moriarty looked like, and Sherlock hadn’t seen fit to mention that he was sitting at the bar, behind a group of large rugby supporters. He had been giving him the stink eye all evening, and as much as Sherlock had tried to ignore him, he had spent a fair amount of time trying to imagine what he was up to.

Which was why he was rather glad to see John on his way, and that Jim wasn’t going after him. If John was away and safe, then he could deal with the creep.

Who was a bitter, petty and hypocritical creep, as Sherlock realized when he heard him speak, addressing no-one in particular but clearly directing his venom towards the rugby boys.

“Look at those fags.” He spat.

Sherlock and John hadn’t been especially discreet, what with all the friends cheering to their love and not least their parting kiss. Sherlock was aware most people in the pub couldn’t ignore he was gay. He also knew they weren’t especially bothered, and would probably have let him finish his pint in peace, if it weren’t for somebody stirring them up reminding them that it wasn’t “normal”.

The first reaction from one of the guys, though, was a nonviolent one. He shrugged, saying that they were doing no harm.

“Hm.” Jim said seemingly innocently. “And before you know it, this becomes a gay bar.”

If it didn’t trigger instant hostility, it sparked up a debate. Sherlock knew he should have taken off, stop giving them and excuse to keep arguing about whether or not gays were taking over the social scene and whatnot. But he watched Jim seep his poison, and it was fascinating. Almost unnoticed, just slipping in a comment here and there, steering them in the direction he wanted – in no time he had them all on a string, and a lot more unfriendly than they initially started. Sherlock figured it was time to dash.

Unfortunately, Jim added the last straw.

“You should make sure he understands this is no place to bring his queer friends next time.”

And the rugby guys seemed to agree.

Sherlock tried to walk fast, but they caught up with him around the corner, calling him all sorts of names and defending their territory like gorillas. He thought they’d keep it at that, and ignored them – after all he was used to a lack of sympathy towards him.

But when they shoved him into an alleyway, it got a little worse than just that.

“I get it.” He tried to compromise. “I won’t come back to your precious pub.”

Maybe it was the right thing to say – it was definitely not the right tone in which to say it. _I can’t help my voice though, can I?_ He thought as he received the first punch.

If they thought Sherlock wouldn’t put up a fight, they were in for a surprise. He had the advantage to be a lot less drunk and more agile than they were. They had the advantage to be twice his width, and there were four of them. And every blow he gave back angered them a little more. Sherlock was glad John was on the bus home. Not only because of the beating – might even not have happened if he hadn’t been alone to pick on – but because of the verbal abuse. Whether or not Moriarty had put words into their heads (and it was more likely he didn’t for the most part) they were saying the most horrible things Sherlock had ever heard. He had never witnessed such hatred, much less directed towards him, and he wasn’t sure he understood.

Although their insulting John – either directly or through him – was drive enough to keep fighting all night, he was lucid enough to know his body wouldn’t last half as long. Fists and feet rained on him, and it was becoming harder to keep standing. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he tried to distract his mind by remembering a time when he had been in more pain. He couldn’t.

Then, suddenly, he wasn’t the only one throwing punches at the four other guys. Someone joined the fight, and he was on his side. John, Sherlock instantly thought, with a mixture of love and fear. His attackers cleared off quickly enough that he could see it wasn’t John, which was a relief, although he wanted nothing more than to be in his arms right now and forget the pain.

“Get lost!” His helper shouted after the guys. “Wankers.” He added between his teeth.

“Thank you.” Sherlock managed between ragged breaths.

He was trying very hard to stand and maintain what dignity he had left.

“What was that about?” The man asked.

Sherlock took a look at him, and wondered if he really didn’t know. He clearly was gay himself, what with the dress code and the amount of personal grooming Sherlock could spot with just one glance.

“Gay rights.” Sherlock sneered.

“Never talk politics with rugby men.” The other answered, deadpan.

Sherlock had a grin, and this little moment of humour past, his new friend became more concerned.

“Any broken bones?” He asked.

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock asserted.

He could move every one of his limbs, if not painlessly, at least not excruciatingly. And he had blocked almost all the blows directed towards his ribs. He would probably have massive bruises on his back and arms, but nothing much more serious. He was a lot more concerned about what he would say to John. Even if it’d been an option to not get naked in front of him before he healed – which it wasn’t – there was still the cut on the arch of his eyebrow, if he trusted the river of blood on the right side of his face.

“Could have been worse.” He stated. “I owe you one.”

“How about a drink sometime?” The guy smiled.

His concern had been short-lived. He wasn’t going to offer first aid or call the police; it almost looked like he had joined it more for the sake of throwing a few punches than really to save Sherlock’s ass. Although from the way his gaze diverted, Sherlock’s ass was also of some interest to him.

“I have a boyfriend.” Sherlock mentioned. “Other than that, I can pay you back in drinks.”

“Lucky guy.” The other shrugged.

Sherlock realized how easily he had used the word this time. He almost smiled at himself. But why did he always need for things to be threatened to realize they mattered?

“We’ll see about it, then.” He pointed to Sherlock’s cut. “Take care of that. See you around,...”

He extended his hand, and was obviously waiting for a name to part on.

“Sherlock.”

He shook his hand.

“Raul.”


	16. Chapter 16

He didn’t look too bad. If he put his hair like that, you could almost not see the gash barring his eyebrow. Sherlock smiled in the mirror, and then sighed at his pitiful efforts. John would know anyway – not that he wanted to hide it from him. But he was a little concerned about his reaction. He had had a few glimpses of an angry John, and it wasn’t his favourite mood.

“Sherlock?” The voice behind the door accompanying the knocking was cheerful – for now.

When he opened the door, John’s smile fell. He hadn’t repositioned his hair. Might as well get away with it sooner rather than later.

“What happened to you?” John asked immediately, reaching to brush the wound for a quick check that it wasn’t too serious.

“Sit down.” Sherlock offered.

“Sit down?” John repeated, already worried beyond measure. “Is it that bad?”

He was doing a full body check on Sherlock with his eyes by now, although he couldn’t see much seeing that the younger man was fully dressed. He was clearly itching to run his hands over his body for a more thorough examination.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock assured him.

He wondered if he should show him the bruises now, or wait until he _had_ to get his clothes off. He didn’t really want to upset John any more at the moment, but on the other hand, when the mood for sex would come, he didn’t want to kill it. Besides, John looked far from convinced by his assertion.

With a sigh, he lifted his shirt up and angled himself so John would see the extent of the damage. He had a few massive bruises on his back and abdomen, one towards the middle near his spine which particularly hurt and was darker than the others.

John said nothing. He circled Sherlock, pressing gently around the bruises, in full doctor mode. He lifted Sherlock’s shirt higher up to check his ribs, made him move his shoulders. When he was done, he took Sherlock’s hands in his. The knuckles were bruised too, and bloodied where the skin had split. Sherlock coiled and extended his fingers to reassure him that there were no broken bones.

“You got into a fight.” John eventually said.

“I was trying to get out of it.” Sherlock answered.

“What happened?” John asked again.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock revealed, although he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to give John’s wrath a name to focus on. “He talked those guys against me – well, against gays in general. He did a great job of blowing their slight prejudiced discomfort out of proportions. But I’m okay.” He said quickly, seeing John starting to fume. “John, seriously, I’m okay, it could have been worse.”

“Exactly!” John exploded. “How can you be so relaxed about it? How many were they? It’s good that you could put up a fight but they could have beaten you to death! How did you get out of it?”

“Why are you yelling at _me_?” Sherlock asked, looking confused, hoping to calm John down a little.

“Because you’re hurt!” John yelled back. “How did it happen? Why wasn’t I there to protect you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You can’t always be there, for one, and also, I couldn’t exactly predict this would happen and schedule for you to be there. And I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have put you in harm’s way, and I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

John jabbed a finger into a bruise on his side as an answer.

“Ow!” Sherlock yelped.

Before he could protest or ask what that was for, John was crouching down, pressing his lips against the bruise. He did the same for every other one, and finished by pulling Sherlock’s head down so he could kiss his split eyebrow. By the end of the process, Sherlock was shivering all over, and was pretty sure his pants weren’t as tight a few minutes before.

“Sorry for yelling.” John whispered. “I yell when I’m scared.”

“You’re the one scaring me.” Sherlock answered only half jokingly. “You’re not going to go off and kill anyone, are you?”

“I’ll settle for punching Moriarty in the face.” John answered. “Where can I find him?”

“He’s not worth it.” Sherlock tried to soothe him. “Besides, he didn’t actually do any of the hitting and I don’t think I can prove that he was the one winding those guys up against me.”

“What about them?” John asked, very thorough. “I hope you’re not intending to let them get away with it?”

“I’m going to the police this evening.” Sherlock reassured him. “I actually have a witness; some guy came and helped, made them run off like cowards. We’re going for a drink afterwards, if you’d like to join us.”

“Yes, I suppose I’d like to thank him.” John nodded. His face was grave. “How bad would it be if this guy hadn’t been there then? Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock allowed himself a moment of silence, and was tempted to answer with bravado and pretend he could have taken them. But it was unlikely John would be satisfied with an answer like that. Not that the truth was much more satisfying.

“I would probably have ended up in the hospital.”

“God.” John breathed out between his teeth.

“But I didn’t.” Sherlock said softly. “Let’s be grateful for that instead of mad at the world for sending a bunch of crass rugby fans my way.”

“Mad at the world?” John repeated. “I’m not mad at the world. I’m mad at that bastard Jim Moriarty, for being so petty he would rather have you beaten to a pulp because you don’t want him.”

“Forget about him.”

“What if he does it again?” John insisted.

Sherlock was about to say something reassuring – he wasn’t scared of what Jim Moriarty could do to him, he wasn’t going to let him cripple every one of his movements – but then another, dreadful _what if_ came to his mind.

What if he decided to take it out on John?

“Sherlock?”

He must have paled. The hand John touched to his face felt very hot.

“Are you okay?”

The gentle voice barely reached his ears, but his hand instinctively reached up and closed on John’s, squeezing tight.

“You’re right.” He said. “We can’t let him be, not when he might be plotting his next move.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe I should talk to him.”

There was a pause, John considering it – Sherlock was surprised he didn’t refuse straight up.

“Maybe.” John said eventually. “You didn’t exactly turn him away gently, maybe that’s what he’s pissed about. But,” he added before Sherlock could step in. “If you do that, I want it to be in a public place, preferably not surrounded by gay haters. And I want to be at shouting distance. Also,” he continued, “it would be better if you did that unannounced during a school day. Something like, intercept him in full view and drag him to the cafeteria. That way he won’t have time to plot anything.”

Sherlock hesitated between a frown and a smile.

“You make him sound like a criminal mastermind.” He said.

“I don’t want to take any chances.” John said. “I appreciate that you were honest with me when I asked about him, because I can see that’s he’s a little too obsessed with you for it to be strictly healthy. Even before he tried actual bodily harm, he acted like a stalking creep.”

Sherlock couldn’t deny that.

“Okay.” He nodded. “The element of surprise, a gay-friendly crowd, and my guardian angel nearby. I can do that.”

John seemed to approve, and added calmly:

“And if the talking doesn’t work or if on the contrary he tries anything altogether too friendly with you, I _will_ punch him in the face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what I want to write next but I have yet to write it. Things are not going too well at home and I have a lot of work to do with essays to write and exams coming up, so I hope I'll be able to update soon enough, but please bear with me if it takes a little too long.  
> Anyway thanks for your comments I'm glad you're enjoying the series!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm publishing the parallel chapter in Hurricane Drunk at the same time

Sherlock was on his way out when his phone rang. He answered without looking at the number on the screen – it was never a name, his contact book was empty; he had a wonderful head for figures, and he knew all the phone numbers he needed by heart (there weren’t that many).

“Brother dear.” Mycroft spoke at the other end.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sighed. “What do you want? I’m meeting someone in five minutes.”

He kept walking while talking. He had stopped giving his full attention to his eldest a long time ago.

“Friends?” Mycroft asked, seemingly interested.

“What is it to you?”

“Nothing, I was going to ask you if you were doing anything tonight, if Quinton would be with you. So you’re going out with friends?”

Sherlock never thought Mycroft made much sense most of the time, but there were times it was worse than ever.

“What on earth are you talking about?” He asked, already out of patience.

“Well, I would hate for you to be alone on your birthday.”

“If this is a trick to drag me to one of your soporific dinners, Mycroft, you can forget it.” Sherlock snapped at his brother. “I do not need to meet any more of your pompous friends, nor do I need a job in Government once I finish my masters.”

Mycroft let a silence pass.

“It _is_ your birthday, Sherlock.” He said eventually. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that.”

He’d completely forgotten. He’d never made a big deal of birthdays – why did they matter so much to people? Was he supposed to change his way of doing things the minute he turned twenty? Did being one year closer to death really need to be celebrated with presents and cakes?

“Right.” Mycroft doubted. “Well, I’ll leave you to your business then. Mummy sends her love. She wouldn’t call herself, she knows how you are. Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock answered coldly.

He didn’t need Mycroft’s constant reminding that he wasn’t a good son. He’d had a whole childhood of it, now he’d stopped caring. He knew his mother loved him, in her odd way, just as he was, set between the substitute head of the family and the favourite youngest. It was just how it was. Quinn could do anything and still be adored. Sherlock could do the nicest things, it would seem suspicious. Mycroft by definition never did anything off beam.

He reached his rendezvous point, and Raul there waiting for him, as he was ending the call.

“Going by your face, that wasn’t your boyfriend.” The guy said as a greeting.

“No.” Sherlock confirmed. “My brother.”

“Oh?” Raul looked interested. “Is he as good looking as you and single?”

“He’s a pretentious sod.” Sherlock assessed. “You wouldn’t like him. And I don’t think he’s into men. Our youngest brother is, but he’s got a boyfriend too, and if you don’t mind my saying this he’s probably a little young for you. He’s probably a little young for his boyfriend, that said.”

There was a flash of realization across Raul’s face, followed by hesitation.

“What’s your younger brother’s name?” He asked. “I think I might know him.”

“Quinton?” Sherlock said, surprised. “How?”

“Quinton.” Raul repeated fondly. “Yes, we’ve met. We didn’t have time to talk that much, it was a shame, he sounded like a very interesting kid. I should contact him again.”

Sherlock sensed there was something fishy about all this – how would Quinn be acquainted with this guy? – but they arrived at the police station, and he promised himself to ask his brother later.

Turned out he didn’t have to. After giving their statements, they went to the university pub for a drink, where John was supposed to join them. Quinn and James arrived first, for some reason, although now Sherlock suspected it was something to do with his turning twenty years old today.

But when he laid eyes upon them, Quinton’s face turned to horror. In half a second, James had leaped like a leopard right on Raul, punching him into the floor while Quinn started shouting in the background.

“James! Stop, James!”

The bartender was rushing to them to stop the fight. Sherlock had stepped away from the table, quickly piecing the elements together. He turned to his brother for any kind of confirmation, but this one was too busy pulling James from Raul and trying to soothe him, almost placing himself between the two men as if he could do any protecting of his own. On the floor, Raul was holding his nose, blood gushing between his fingers.

“What’s going on here?”

John had just turned up, and walked in on this mess.

“My question exactly!” The bartender brawled. “You better have a good reason for this, lad, or I’m reporting you to the police!”

The morale of his reasoning was slightly dubious, but nobody argued. James pointed at the guy and explained in a hateful voice – though in the calmest tone he could manage.

“That piece of shit.” He said. “Tried to rape my boyfriend. Twice.” He spat.

“Is that him?” John reacted. “I saw him on the honour board when I went through admin looking for Sherlock the other day.”

“Yeah.” Quinn said bitterly. “He does fool most people.”

“Including me.” Sherlock spoke up. “Acting heroic, taking the defence of the outnumbered.”

“He’s the one who helped you?” Quinn asked, surprised.

“You two are the same.” Silva suddenly intervened, pulling himself to his feet. “You look good in black and blue.” His grin was wicked, without an ounce of remorse. “Really, that was a random act I did for you, Sherlock. I just felt like a fight. Oh but I _was_ thrilled when I discovered whose brother you were. I was hoping to distract you from your...” He spared a glance for John. “Nondescript boyfriend.” He finished.

James started moving with the intent to claw his eyes out again, but Sherlock beat him to it, crashing his fist into Raul’s face. John held back the second punch, remembering the bruised knuckles – it wouldn’t do Sherlock any good if he broke his hand in a fight. Sherlock obviously didn’t even think of that, and tried to have another swing at the staggering man.

“ENOUGH!”

Everyone startled at the roar, and turned to that grizzly bear of a bartender in slight awe.

“You!” He waved at the lot of them. “Get out of here, and if you bring trouble again there’ll be no second chance, you’ll be banned. You.” He then turned to Silva. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m calling security, and we’re getting to the bottom of this, because I’m having none of you rapists in my pub.”

Everyone else in the room, who had gathered around the scene in the meantime, cheered and clapped, and a few insults flew. James hugged Quinn protectively, holding Silva’s gaze like it alone could hurt them.

“Give me a statement.” The bartender beckoned them, amending his first order. “Then I don’t want to see your faces again tonight, got it?”

What with his efficiency, and the help of second-year IT student with a laptop and speedy typing skills, they were all out in no time. They exchanged a look and, Quinn first and the other following suit, broke into fits of laughter for a good three or four minutes.

“Oh, God.” Quinton finally breathed. “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

They were gone for another minute.

“Strange chain of events.” John commented when they all finally calmed down. “But I guess all’s well that ends well. He’s likely to be out of your hair now, right?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Quinton had a little pout. “But I’ll finish him off more easily now.”

“Finish him-”

“Don’t ask.” Sherlock interrupted.

James closed his mouth; he’d been about to say the same thing.

“Okay.” John conceded. He was learning that there is quite a deal of _don’t ask, don’t tell_ with the Holmes.

“Anyone still want to get a drink?” James asked.

The tone of his voice clearly indicated he didn’t. Sherlock figured he had something else in mind for the rest of the evening, and gave a little warning frown to his brother – who rolled his eyes and slid an arm around James’s waist half-defiantly.

“Not really.” John smiled. “We’ll leave you to whatever you had planned this evening. I myself have a birthday boy to take care of.”

Sherlock perked up – and ignored Quinn’s snort. Yeah, he was one to talk. But John had just made birthdays interesting again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're looking at sex for the next chapter...


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those three words

“John.” Sherlock whined, as John tied his other hand to a cupboard handle – John’s bed didn’t offer any hold to tie someone to, and John had half-convinced half-forced Sherlock to let him do whatever he wanted with him in the kitchen. He’d only thrown a few cushions on the tiled floor so it wouldn’t be too hard and cold.

“No.” John replied calmly, checking the knots were tight. “You’re not touching me, you’re not touching yourself, and _I_ will touch you when I decide to. This is your punishment for not telling me it was your birthday.”

“I forgot!” Sherlock protested. “And I don’t mean I just forgot to tell you. I forgot, I didn’t do it on purpose, please.”

As soon as they’d set foot in the flat, before tying him up to the cupboards, John had kissed and fondled him long enough that he was hard and panting for more. But now he was sitting on a cushion on the kitchen floor, tied at the wrists, and his erection was pressed down painfully in his jeans.

“Please.” He repeated. “Just, at least unzip me.”

He pressed his knees against John, who was kneeling between the long legs. As he finished tying the knots, he sat back on his heels with a satisfied smile.

“Perfect.” He said. “Now you’re all mine.”

“I kick.” Sherlock warned in a mock-growl.

“Sure.” John replied mockingly, leaning forward to kiss him.

“Unzip me.” Sherlock pleaded.

“No.” John kissed his jaw.

“Untie me.” Sherlock tugged on his wrists.

“Uh-uh.” He undid the first button of his shirt, licked the collarbone.

“Touch me.” His voice was becoming desperate. “John. Please.”

“Are you begging?” John teased.

He kept unbuttoning, moving down to bite gently on a nipple. Sherlock hissed and tried to lift his hips to grind against John, to no avail. He was staying purposely just out of reach.

“Yes.” Sherlock whined again. “Yes, I’m begging. It’s _painful_.”

John grinned, and moved back a little, lowering his head towards Sherlock’s crotch. As impatient as he was, the latter took the time to make a mental note that John was absolutely lovely on all fours, even if he was torturing him at the moment. Something to remember for later.

John undid the button of Sherlock’s jeans, then bent his head and pulled the zipper with his teeth. Sherlock let out a gasp – he couldn’t take much more. He had never been so turned on, and he was surprised at the strong emotions triggered by being denied what he wanted (even if it was just delayed, because he would never believe John could stop there). He wanted to beg, cry, scream, kick – in short, throw a tantrum, like he hadn’t since he was three; anything so the agonizing teasing stopped.

And then it did. Suddenly, his cock was out of his pants, and John’s mouth around it, and Sherlock screamed in surprise and relief. John withdrew to laugh.

“God, you’re loud.”

“Don’t you dare.” Sherlock grunted. “Suck me until I come and then get me hard again. Don’t you dare stop or I swear I’ll kick you.”

John obliged, licking the head at first, then opening his mouth a little more, and taking Sherlock in progressively, going back and forth, each time a little further, until it hit the back of his throat and, to Sherlock’s amazement, instead of gagging, he swallowed around his cock, sending shivers all over his body. He didn’t need more confirmation by now, but John was proving once again that he was definitely really good at this. He closed his eyes and relished in the sensation for as long as he could hold – and when he finally looked down, just the sight of John bobbing his head between his thighs was enough to push him over the edge. He came into John’s mouth, screaming again, bruising his wrists against their bindings as his whole body tensed.

“Oh, God.” He panted, looking at John.

He was the most gorgeous thing in the world. He’d swallowed, only a little glimmer of come on his lips stretched by a smile.

“Let’s see now.” He murmured, obviously still in a kinky mood. “Can I make you hard again without touching you?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Sherlock asked, still short of breath. “Because I’m not sure I can provide an answer, given you’ve short-circuited my brain.”

John kissed him – Sherlock tasted himself on his tongue.

“I don’t expect you to answer.” John said. “Let’s find out.”

He licked his lips, unbuttoning his trousers, and then licked his hand, before he started stroking himself. He still had his clothes on, with just his cock sticking out, and his shirt only crumpled up to reveal the smallest strip of skin. Somehow, Sherlock found that a lot more erotic than if he was stark naked. He already feel his skin heat up again, and the blood rush to his groin, building up to another erection faster than was entirely reasonable.

“Ah, youth.” John mocked gently. “But we’re not quite there yet. How do you respond to dirty talk?”

Just the idea seemed to work, so Sherlock guessed he responded adequately. He encouraged John to go on with a nod of his head.

“You are so, so beautiful.” John said first. “Look at you. Just spilled, and hardening again in the most delightful way. Tell me.” He whispered, leaning forward just enough that he was still out of reach, hand still on his cock, dangerously close. “What is it that turns you on?”

Sherlock closed his eyes – the anticipation was almost painful, but he didn’t want it to stop. He liked attention, he’d always have. But having John 100% focused on him was the only attention he really wanted. His head was always so full, his brain always working so fast. Now there wasn’t anything that wasn’t about John and him, and the love and lust between them, the heat, the shivers.

“The simple sound of your voice.” Sherlock whispered back, eyes still closed. “And just looking at you smiling at me.” He opened his eyes. “I love you.” He blurted out.

John stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, looking awestruck.

“Do you...” He said hesitantly. “Do you mean it?”

“I love you.” Sherlock repeated for an answer. Oh, Lord, it sounded right. “I love you.”

John let go off his cock and in a blink, both his hands were at the back of Sherlock’s head as he kissed him like his life depended on it. Although it had broken the previous mood, it finished making Sherlock as hard as he could be. He moaned against John’s mouth, pulling desperately on his wrists, aching to run his hands on John’s skin.

“Untie me.” He pleaded. “Let’s go to bed.”

Before he did, John hugged him, knees pressing a little awkwardly against his groin.

“I love you too.”

He drew back, smiled at him – Sherlock noticed his eyes were a little damp.

“Come on. Bed.”

Sherlock was grateful that he didn’t go on with some sentimental development on that. Simple, straightforward facts. John probably knew him well enough to realize now that was all Sherlock asked for.

John brought Sherlock’s wrists to his lips after he’d untied them, kissing the red skin where it had been grazed.

“Sorry.” He said. “I didn’t mean to add more bruises to your body.” He pulled him to his feet, mischievous smile back on his face. “Your gorgeous, about to be penetrated body.” He added. “Shall we?”

Sherlock’s long arm found John’s butt to squeeze, and his lips his mouth to kiss.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might be more OOCness on Sherlock's part than usual, but well, it's a college AU and he's barely 20.

They were still lying in bed around ten in the morning, a laziness that was unusual to Sherlock but not entirely displeasing. In fact, not displeasing at all, he mused. He was playing with John’s hair, feeling the weight of his head against his chest, the warmth of his hand resting inconspicuously at the top of his thigh. He knew he wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes were closed, and he was almost purring like a kitten in contentment. The confessions of the previous night were hovering between them, unthreatening.

“You didn’t have classes today?” Sherlock eventually asked.

“Yes.” John answered. “I woke up with my alarm around seven and decided they weren’t worth it.”

Sherlock stiffened just a little.

“You shouldn't do that.” He said.

“Do what?” John snuggled even closer, oblivious to the new tension in Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Put me before your studies.” Sherlock explained. “They’re important.”

“You’re important.” John replied.

“John, I’m serious.”

John finally drew back a little to look at his boyfriend.

“So am I.” He said. “It’s one day, Sherlock. Sometimes I want to be able to take one day off to be with you. Besides.” He added, resting his head back on Sherlock’s chest. “And I know it’s my own fault for fucking you twice last night even after foreplay, but I didn’t get nearly enough sleep to be up at seven and endure a day of lectures.”

Sherlock said nothing. John knew he was getting the point, but still didn’t fully approve.

“I’m not letting any bit of my studies or career plans go for your sake.” John said eventually. “I know how to balance my life. But I do love you, and now you’re a part of that balance whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock let another moment of silence pass.

“I like it.” He said at length. “And...”

He stopped himself, hesitant.

“And?” John pressed gently.

“And if your career takes you somewhere far, I’ll follow you.” Sherlock said – and was that a blush on his cheeks?

John sat up to look at him. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“This is long term.” He said carefully. “My _career_ hasn’t even started yet.”

“I mean career in a broad sense.” Sherlock explained. “I mean if you had to move today, I’d follow you. That’s more likely to happen in years, if ever, but if I still feel the same then, I will come with you.”

He was definitely red – and John more and more confused.

“You just said I should put you before my studies, and-”

“I can be an anthropologist anywhere.” Sherlock noted. “You know, I’d even like to be self-employed. Freelance anthropologist. Point at someone and I’ll tell you all about his social behaviour.”

John laughed.

“That would suit you.”

“Would it?” Sherlock mused. “I don’t know.”

“Of course it would. You’d be brilliant.”

Sherlock had a small, almost sad smile.

“You know you’re the only one to think that, right?”

John remained silent, but Sherlock kissed him.

“But you know what?” He said afterwards. “I think that’s enough. The way you believe in me... that means a lot. Yours is the only opinion that matters, really. I’ve never cared about what people would think before, but now I have you to not disappoint.”

“You’re not disappointing so far.” John smiled.

“That’s only because love makes you blind.” Sherlock replied, deadpan.

John laughed, and climbed on top of him to kiss him silly. They were interrupted by Sherlock’s phone – he groaned and was almost tempted to hurl the thing to the other side of the room. But it was Quinn’s ringtone, and these days, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it.

“Yes?”

“Oh.” Quinn immediately recognized the tone. “I’m disturbing. Sorry. I assumed you’d be up by now.”

“Speak fast.” Sherlock advised.  

John was attacking his neck, and he could feel their groins harden against one another.

“I just wanted to say Silva’s been suspended.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said – it was a miracle that he was able to keep his voice even. John was now sucking on a nipple, and his hand was wandering south. “That’s good.”

“Yes.” Quinn confirmed. “So uh, thank you, I guess, for the random chain of events that led you to bring him there last night.”

“Anytime.” Sherlock groaned. John’s hand had curled up on his cock.

“I think I’d better leave you.” Quinn sensed.

“I think that’s a good idea, yes.” Sherlock’s breath was becoming shorter. John’s mouth was dangerously close to joining his hand.

“Talk to you soon.”

He hung up, and Sherlock let out a low howl, just as John’s tongue darted out and touched the tip of his cock. He only licked it once, and sat up.

“No!” Sherlock cried out before he could stop himself.

“We should really get up.” John said, looking positively mischievous.

“No!” Sherlock repeated, despaired. “You evil person!”

His cock was painfully hard, invitingly leaking with pre-come.

“No really.” John insisted. “We should. Starting by a shower.”

Sherlock perked up.

“Shower sex?

“I admit it’s going to be arduous given the size of your shower.” John grinned. “But I do like a challenge.”

“Always so full of surprises.” Sherlock smiled, leaning in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I thought you were against stating the obvious.” John grinned.

“There are a few exceptions.”

They kissed again, and then virtually ran to the shower – being already naked, they only had to jump in. They kissed again, under the running water, running their hands all over each other’s slippery skin. After a while Sherlock turned over, hands flat on the wall, and John slipped a finger inside him without wasting much time, working him open quickly and efficiently. Sherlock hissed and panted, sensations heightened by the hot water drumming on his back. After what seemed no time at all, John’s cock was pressing against his stretched hole, and he thrust in, gripping his hips firmly, filling him to the brim, groaning in pleasure. Sherlock’s difficulty to find any grip on the slippery tiles on the wall caused his body to jerk out of control, and it wasn’t long before it pushed him over the edge. John finished little after him, before the water even had a chance to run cold. When he pulled out, he slipped his fingers back in, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks to let the ejaculate drip out, cleaning him gently and thoroughly. It was a close thing that it didn’t make Sherlock hard again.

When they were both out and wrapped in towels, Sherlock made a confession.

“You know, I wanted to do this our first time together.” He said.

“You did?” John looked genuinely surprised.

“Well yes. I said I was going to take a shower, remember?” Sherlock recalled. “I was actually hoping you’d join me.”

John let out an incredulous laugh.

“And you expected me to get that from your stern statement?” He asked.

“...Yes?”

“It was my first time with a man.” John reminded. “And you’re not exactly an ordinary one, on top of that. Sorry I didn’t get the drift.”

“Oh, I’m not reproaching you anything.” Sherlock reassured him. “I just wanted to say... that was good.”

John smiled.

“In that hypothetical future where you follow me to the end of the world.” He said. “We’ll get a place with a very large shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left! Actually one chapter and one epilogue. Those will come a bit later, because I want to match them with Quinn's side timeline-wise. So in the meantime, if there is anything you want to read before this story ends, feel free to request!


	20. Chapter 20

They had spent the whole day together, their only movement the walk to the tube station to go to John’s spend the night there. John was cooking something quick to eat in front of the telly when he heard a loud crashing noise, like the whole coffee table had been toppled over with all the plates and cutlery on it smashing to the floor.

Which was exactly what had happened. John popped out of the kitchen to see Sherlock standing there absolutely livid, having obviously knocked the table over when getting up, his phone in his hand.

“Quinn.” He said in a strangled voice.

John walked up to his boyfriend, instantly worried.

“What happened?”

“Silva- He- That was Mycroft, he- Oh God, this is my fault.”

John rushed to the kitchen to turn off the stove and back to Sherlock, taking his arm carefully.

“Sit down.” He said gently. “Talk to me.”

Sherlock dropped down on the couch, in a state a shock.

“He’s okay.” He whispered. “He’s _not_ okay, but Mycroft saved him from... Mycroft saved him. He would have...Silva would have...Because of me...”

“Sherlock, you’re not making any sense. Look at me.” John asked.

With a sharp intake of breath, still looking straight ahead blankly, Sherlock explained:

“After last night I guess Silva was pissed, and he kidnapped Quinton, and he tried to force him into having sex with him so it would look consensual and there wouldn’t be a case against him, and he got Quinn to do what he wanted by threatening to come after me. He used me as leverage.”

He got back up like a spring, kicking the tumbled coffee table violently, and started shouting.

“The son of a bitch used me as bloody leverage to abuse my _baby brother_ thinking he could get away with it-” – another kick for the poor table – “I will rip his LUNGS OUT!”

“Sherlock.” John tried to catch him again, slightly scared by this anger he’d never seen before. “Sherlock, calm down-”

“Calm down?” Sherlock repeated. “My brother almost got raped _for the third time_ and this time it was _this close_ ” –he lifted his thumb and index finger an inch apart– “all because of me, and you want me to calm down?”

“How is it your fault!?” John argued. “You didn’t exactly choose to be used as a threat.”

“He got to Quinn because Quinn wanted to protect me. He’s the youngest brother, for God’s sake, _I_ am supposed to protect _him_!”

“No.” John said. “No, Sherlock, he got to Quinn because he’s a sick rapist and he would have gone after him whether he had you as his trump card or not.”

“I’m supposed to protect him.” Sherlock repeated in a broken voice.

John managed to catch Sherlock’s wrists and to lead him back to the couch – Sherlock opposed no resistance and slumped back down with a heartbreaking look on his face.

“It’s not your fault.” John said soothingly. “You know you cannot rationally be here to look over him all the time, and as much as you love someone you cannot remove every danger from their path. What you can do as a brother is pick him up, help him get back on his feet, help him carry on. He will need you to.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“Why would he need me?” He said. “He has James. Why would he even want me? He has every right to be mad at me.”

“No he hasn’t, and he’s not going to be!” John protested. “I don’t pretend to know Quinton like you do, but I know enough of him to be certain of that. And don’t you _dare_ even tell him it’s your fault, because that will turn into a contest of guilt and everyone will get even more hurt in the process. He basically had your fate in his hands, Sherlock. Silva had an obsession with _him_ , and then he dragged you into it. Imagine how Quinn must feel about that. Before you say anything, I know it’s not his fault. Absolutely not. No more than it is yours.”

Sherlock remained silent for a long while, letting John hold his hand and rub circles on his skin with his thumb.

“I see your point.” He said eventually. “I wouldn’t want Quinn to blame himself for this. I’ll try not to blame myself either.”

“The only guilty party here is Raul Silva.” John stated forcefully. “Now tell me he’s been captured so I can sleep tonight.”

“He’s been taken into custody. Mycroft said he’ll personally ensure he doesn’t walk free anytime soon, but there’s only so much he can do within the system.”

“He’s locked up tonight.” John said. “It’s always that.” He hesitated, before he added: “Do you want to... call Quinton? Go and see him?”

“No.” Sherlock answered, quietly but firmly. “I need more time before I can face him, I think. Sometimes even my reason escapes me, John, you know, and right now I cannot seem to think straight. I know you’re right, what you said, you’re right, but I need... Well I need to calm down.” He finished with a faint smile.

“I’m here.” John pledged simply.

Sherlock turned to give him a soft kiss.

“Thank you. Can you...” He swallowed. “I know it must be the worst evening of Quinn’s life, and James will be in over his head, but can you send him a text? Ask if my brother is...how he is.”

“Sure.” John took out his phone and typed a text to James.

_We heard, both very upset, S in a state. How are you holding up?_

The answer came a little while later – in the meantime, John had managed to coax Sherlock into eating something.

_Sorry for delay, your message sent Q into fit of worry about S being okay. Confirm he is? It’s going to be a tough night, and some nights after that, but we’ll get through it. Q is the strongest kid._

 Sherlock snatched the phone from John when he hesitated about showing him the text, and his face flashed with pain and anger again.

“I told you.” John said carefully. “Don’t go down this spiral. You both have to-”

“I know.” Sherlock breathed in sharply. “It’s not our fault. But you can’t ask us to stop worrying for each other.”

“Of course not.” John almost took offense.

He started typing an answer to James, but Sherlock stopped him.

“Let me.” He said.

He took out his own phone, and sent his message directly to Quinn.

_Safe and sound. Distressed. I love you. -SH_


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny chapter! It's all mostly tying up loose ends now.  
> Epilogue (even more ridiculously tiny) will be posted soon, along with the Quinn-side one, but I don't know what sort of Internet connection I'll have for the next few days so that might be next week!

The whole Silva business had been trying for everyone – as much as he worked on not showing it on a daily basis, Sherlock cared deeply for his little brother, and he was in a great deal of distress after the (third) attempted rape on him. John had needed all the patience he was capable of to deal with his mood swings, waking up in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to do one nonsensical thing or another, unbridled horniness one minute and little short of chastity vows the next. He’d calmed down as the trial went, the surer it became that Raul would not walk away from this. Not for a few years.

“This man is a menace.” He told John one night. “This is my fucking specialty, reading people. Yet he fooled me like a child.”

“He did help you when you were being used as a punching bag by four other guys.” John pointed out. “It wasn’t exactly the best time to notice that he was evil inside. And from what you told me, you did notice some things were a bit off with him.”

“Not enough.” Sherlock groaned. “And I should have seen he wouldn’t let go, after talking to Quinn like that in the pub. I should have told him to watch out, not to walk alone...”

“Sherlock.” John interrupted. “There was nothing you could do. Quinton could have taken all the precautions he wanted, Silva’s determination to get him would have worked out sooner or later, that’s just the kind of creep he is.”

“Speaking of creep.” Sherlock suddenly said. “I never talked to Jim, what with all that. He’s been surprisingly...invisible.”

“I hope it’s for good.” John growled.

Sherlock nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. John was able to read him in an instant.

“You want to call him.”

“Silva’s verdict tomorrow.” Sherlock justified. “It would be nice to have closure on all fronts. Put everything behind us and move on.”

“Go ahead then.” John said understandingly. “Ask him to meet you at the pub right now. And I’ll be sitting at the bar watching over you.”

“No.” Sherlock said. “I’ll be fine. I don’t want him to be reminded of you, I don’t want him to look at you with those eyes he has, like he’s pondering what way to eat you.”

John squinted slightly.

“You’re the possessive kind, then.”

“I just...” Sherlock defended, flustered. “I want to finish this on my own. Leave you out of his crosshair. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay.” John smiled. “It’s the uni pub. He’s not going to wind up anyone against you there. Still, I’ll be here, on alert. Text me if anything’s wrong.”

“I will.” Sherlock promised.

They both knew he wouldn’t. He texted Moriarty, who agreed to meet him ten minutes later. He kissed John reassuringly before he left.

Jim was already here when he arrived.

“Missed me?” He asked with a teasing smile.

“No.” Sherlock replied sternly. “I have a very satisfying boyfriend.”

“Do you now. Good for you.”

“I would like to ask you courteously to stop – or rather, not resume – stalking me. If you could also avoid the kind of stunt you pulled last time.”

“Well, if you ask courteously.” Jim sneered.

Sherlock leaned a little closer to him, eyes set and cold, his tone slightly menacing.

“I know you’re frustrated because I refused to play your little game.” He said calmly. “But you might regret it if I did. Let’s leave it at that and spare us both the inconvenience.”

Moriarty leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and studied Sherlock for a moment. After a while, he just shrugged.

“Fine. I’m ready to admit defeat.”

Sherlock managed to hide his surprise.

“How sport of you.”

“Even I know love when I see it.” The man shrugged again. “If you were ordinary enough to fall, and for _John Watson_ of all people, well. Have your love. Have your convenience. It bores me just talking about it. I’ll only ask for one thing.”

“You can always ask.” Sherlock derided.

“One thing.” Jim repeated. “Before I leave you to your _captivating_ domestic life.”

“And what is that?”

“Kiss me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up – it almost amused him.

“Really, you’re still on about this?”

“Just one kiss.” Jim smirked. “One last taste. You tasted good. Do you want me to ask John if he thinks you taste as good as I think you do? Discuss opinions with him?”

Sherlock’s teeth clenched slightly. Threatening to tell and tease the boyfriend. This guy had less imagination than he’d thought. All the same, he didn’t need John to be reminded of his little slip.

“Alright.” He said. “Come here.”

Moriarty took a step forward, smug as hell – and really didn’t see it coming when Sherlock’s fist collided with his jaw.

“There.” The middle Holmes spat, shaking his hand to ward off the passing pain. “Go discuss how that tastes.”

And with that, he left Moriarty on the ground without a second glance, done with him whether he liked it or not.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ridiculous :)

“Well, that’s it.” The realtor gave them a beaming – and rather forced – smile. “How do you like it?”

_Uncomfortable_. Sherlock had diagnosed her. _Doesn’t know how to react to us, doesn’t want to seem hostile, thinks closing with a gay couple will boost her sales in the neighbourhood._

“It seems like a nice place to live.” John said with moderate enthusiasm.

“It seems to reach a level of dullness only the Americans have the secret of.” Sherlock replied. “Really John, did you _have_ to take a job at the British embassy in the _United States_?” His scorn was so obvious John actually smiled, seeing through the exaggeration. Sherlock was proud as a peacock since John’s promotion. And it was just for two years, theoretically, which helped him bear the idea.

The realtor on the other hand wasn’t sure how to react, and had to ask again.

“So...does that mean you don’t like it?”

“It’s perfect.” Sherlock surprised her. “It’s close to both our workplaces.”

Sherlock would be lecturing in anthropology at the George Washington University from September.

“Actually.” John stepped in. “I think I like the one we saw yesterday morning better.”

Sherlock turned to him, surprised.

“It’s further away.” He said. “It will take you twenty more minutes to get to work.”

“Yes.” John convened. “But there is a lovely park at the back, and...” He cleared his throat. “The bathroom is bigger.”

“Oh.” Sherlock just said, keeping his face straight. “Yes, let’s take it.”

He marched to the realtor and shook her hand vigorously.

“It’s a deal, congratulations.”

The poor woman was still confused.

“Uh, so, which one?” She made sure.

Sherlock smiled softly, already in a world where nobody existed but John. He didn’t look back at the realtor from him, but he still humoured her with an answer.

“The one with the big shower.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!


End file.
